


After The End (And Back Again)

by nightrose



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Recovery, Slavery, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-16 16:26:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 45,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10575090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightrose/pseuds/nightrose
Summary: After the fall of the barricades, the remaining Amis buried their dead and tried to go on. Two of their number were presumed dead and never found.Five years later, their missing leader reappears. He has been through an ordeal he can barely describe at the hands of sadistic kidnappers--and he wasn't alone.





	1. In Which There Is An Unexpected Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> As the lovely footsieinthegarden has pointed out, this fandom needs more slave!fic. I've been trying to get back to writing (this is my first Les Mis fic in, um, a while) and I was inspired to return.
> 
> Just a few warnings before I start: this is going to be a pretty dark fic. However, all the non-con and violence and death will happen off-screen, and there will be no more character death after those mentioned in the first chapter. I will warn for specifics of discussions of trauma and flashbacks when we reach that point in the story. I'll do my best to be as mindful as possible of triggers and so on, but fundamentally this is fic that is largely about enjoying the pain of some of our favorite characters. If you don't enjoy reading about the things this story is about, please feel free not to read it. 
> 
> The rating will probably go up to explicit at some point.

Their small remainder gathers around a table every Saturday night. It’s not the Musain—they’ve brought enough trouble down on Mme Hucheloup and her husband, who never meant any harm to anyone. Though they each, individually, try to give the Hucheloups what custom they can, as a group they will never again darken the doorstep of that café. Besides, it would hurt far too much. Nor, at first, do they go to the grand house that is now the estate of the Baron and Baroness de Pontmercy. What they’ve lost echoes too loudly in the vast rooms there. They meet instead—at first—in anonymous cafés, in parks and wine shops, in a different spot every week. 

They number eight now, ironically, the same number as when they were ses lieutenants. It’s a cruel joke of mathematics, and they try not to think of how Grantaire would laugh at it if he were only here. How strange for it happen, their numbers growing as if nothing had been lost at all. Every week, the roster is the same. 

Jehan Prouvaire, poet, always arrives first and always alone. He dresses somberly now, his outrageous cravats exchanged for a dark and simple uniform, black waistcoat, black trousers. He still writes, but not about what happened on that day in June. Instead he takes commissions from the Pontmercys’ noble connections. He writes poems in praise of beautiful young women and bold young men, filled with classical allusions and politically neutral. Jehan, they learn, had not planned to outlive their rebellion. He was never much of a fighter. So when he, to his own surprise, was able to limp, wounded but very much alive, to safety, he had a small mountain of debts that needed paying. Now he supports himself with his writing, which brings him a kind of pride, if not comfort. His muse is gone, anyway, whatever spirit of art once animated him lost at the barricades. 

Marius de Pontmercy and his beautiful young wife and her father always come as a group. The Baron de Pontmercy was rescued from the barricades by his father-in-law, and he and Cosette married by the end of that first, dreadful, summer. Against all odds, they seem to have a happy life. Jean Valjean, Cosette’s doting father, is a still-powerful man in his late middle years. He had taken ill after the failed rebellion, but with the careful care of his son-in-law and his friends, recovered most of his health. He walks with a cane now, and his hair has gone grey, but he smiles often and even Marius is no longer afraid of him. Cosette herself is the heart of their small group. She did not know the dead, but she has suffered enough to understand. She never speaks of the mother she lost, except sometimes to Éponine. But she understands. 

Dr. Joly, physician, and his wife Musichetta, are an ordinary pair of two now. They had never planned to marry, not when it would mean leaving one of their trio out. That’s no longer a fear they must live with. Joly graduated from the university and is a practicing physician. It caused a scandal when he married a woman who is well known to be no better than she ought to be, having cohabitated with the young doctor and his friend while single. They don’t care much what anyone thinks. Joly is no longer as nervous as he was before Valjean carried him from the barricades, nor does he smile as often or joke as much. Musichetta often speaks for him, now, as he whispers something in her ear and she repeats it with a smile on her lovely face. She still wears her hair unbound around her shoulders, though her dresses are more modest now, and she reserves her affections for Joly alone. They keep a small apartment above his practice on the Rive Gauche, and they are as happy as they are ever likely to be. 

Jean Feuilly, handicraftsman, bears a scar across his calloused hands. A bar of iron had fallen on him, displaced by the blast of a cannon. He’d been trapped beneath, unable to move to flee or fight. He recognizes now that saved his life, though it’s been hard for him to make his living ever since. He can’t move his hands the way he used to, so he’s switched from the delicate work of painting fans to the harder task of making them. Marius would support him, but the one time he suggested it, he was treated to such a withering look from the normally easygoing Feuilly that he hasn’t brought it up again. Instead, he lives by himself in a flat barely big enough for a bed and a dresser. He works day and night, fourteen hours daily sometimes, and tries not to think of how different things could have been, for him, for the thousands of others who are like him. 

The young Éponine and her brother, Gavroche, round out their group. She had intended to die at Marius’ side. Instead, she saw her brother, only nine years old, for the first time in months. She had scrambled up the barricade to pull him to safety, no further thought of Marius once she had the protesting Gavroche in her arms and being carried from the barricade. She dresses in short hair and her boy’s clothes, working uncomplainingly at a paper press. Gavroche is still a pickpocket, almost thirteen now and long-legged. Still, he and his sister are inseparable. She didn’t know the others, those who died, but Gavroche did, and she mourns alongside them—and kicks them back into the present when they need that most. Surprisingly, she and Cosette have become good friends. There’s no more resentment there. Her infatuation with Marius seems so far away now, so unimportant. What she wanted more than anything was love, and she has that now, the unflagging support of her friends and the absolute dedication of her brother.

That’s the eight of them, as it stands five years and six months after the barricades fell. None of them has missed a week of their meetings, not since they first started, by mutual undiscussed agreement, coming together in this way. No matter what else is going on, they’re always sure to make time for this. 

They don’t leave out empty chairs, and they don’t repeat the names of the dead. Boussuet and Bahorel, Combeferre and Courfeyrac, Enjolras and Grantaire. How neatly they fall into pairs. How large is the silence around their names, the stories that will never be told about them because they will never be lived. The things that won’t be said, because they don’t exist to say. 

They had four bodies to bury. Enjolras and Grantaire were never found. For the longest time they held out hope that Grantaire’s cowardice had triumphed, that he had never been at the barricades at all. It’s been five years. They no longer hope. If Grantaire didn’t die that day, he drank himself to death soon after. Either way, he is a casualty of their revolution—of their folly. There is a monument for both of them, now, too, the same as the simple stones Marius had erected for the other four of their friends lost. They simply bear the names of their lost Amis. They wouldn’t have wanted anything more, if they could have spoken about it. Their lives weren’t the point, after all. The point was to make the world better, and they failed.

They don’t speak of revolution any longer. Without their leader, there would be no point. And they are no longer schoolboys, to believe that waving a flag and making a sacrifice could make a bad world good. 

They sit around a table at their anonymous café, every week a different one, and they drink. For the first few years, it is in silence. Cosette, typically enough, is the one to break it. It is early spring, and they are all thinking of how soon the third anniversary of the barricade will come. All, it seems, except Cosette, young and lovely and full of life. If any of them had been able to imagine this, it would have seemed obvious. Of course it is Cosette who brings them back together, who brings them back to life. 

“I’m having a child,” she announces into the quiet. “I’m about three months along. If it’s a girl, I’m thinking Aimée, in honor of the Amis. But if it’s a boy I’d have to pick just one name in memorium. Or I could just go with Jean and honor everyone, including Papa, I suppose. What do you think?”

There had been blinking surprise—even Marius, it seems, was not aware of Cosette’s condition—and then a lively debate. Joly advocated furiously for L’aigle as a name, while Musichetta pointed out that that’s not, in fact, a name. Jehan, of course, suggested Tristan, for both its mythological connotations and its meaning. Valjean blushed with pleasure at the suggestion that someone might actually name a child in his honor, but also pointed out that saddling a child with a name like “Jean Valjean Pontmercy” is not a kindness. The conversation carried all of them into the early hours of the morning, when the proprietess of the café had booted them into the street quite unceremoniously, softening only when Marius handed her a sum of cash that would easily have paid their bill twice over. 

That night had changed everything. True, they still have nights of quiet morning. June will never be a month for boisterousness among them. But most of the time, they meet not to weep over what is gone and never will be again, but just to keep something alive. 

They had gone three long years without speaking of what they’d lost because they had all silently believed that six good souls had died for nothing. Now they realize that their friends did leave something worth having behind. At Cosette’s suggestion, they start to meet at Marius’ house instead. This begins when her pregnancy is in the seventh month and it starts to become difficult for her to travel around town, but when little Aimée is old enough to be left on her own, they keep up the habit of sitting in the garden in the summer and the parlor in the winter. Everyone agrees that it’s best that the Pontmercys don’t have to leave their children alone in the house, but really they enjoy being in a home, somewhere so different from where their revolution was planned and lived its short life and died. The Pontmercy home is decorated with Cosette’s exquisite taste, filled with the energy of children playing and a happy marriage. It’s a new world for all of them. And so life goes on. They settle into a routine. It will never feel quite normal, but it becomes familiar, after a time. 

And then everything changes. 

It’s December, five years later. They’re sitting on sofas and easy chairs. Gavroche has stolen a sip of his sister’s wine and is being roundly scolded for it by Joly. 

“You’ll stunt your growth,” the doctor says.

“I’m taller’n you already,” Gavroche replies, with that grin that, as always, makes them all inclined to forget his rudeness. 

And so they’re all laughing at Joly’s angry pout and Gavroche’s smile when there is a soft knock on the door. Everyone falls silent, looking around the room. 

“I’ll see who it is,” Marius says. They don’t keep servants, at Cosette’s insistence. Instead, the two of them keep their enormous house themselves, leaving bits of it boarded up as necessary. 

It’s a good thing it’s not a butler who answers the door. He might be rather surprised to see a man who would be one of the most wanted criminals in the country, had he not been declared dead five years earlier, standing naked and filthy in the doorstep. 

“Enjolras?” Marius breathes. He’s about to throw his arms around his friend, his friend that he was so certain was lost forever, but he stops himself. Enjolras is as stiff as a board, every muscle in his body tense, and he hasn’t a stitch of clothing on. 

“May I come in?” he says, his voice oddly strained. 

“Of—of course, I’m sorry, we thought you were—“

He steps through the doorway. Marius takes a moment to look him over, though he tries not to make it obvious. Enjolras’ golden hair has been left to grow, and it tangles halfway down his back. He has a bruise over one cheek and a split lip. There are scars around his neck and wrists that Marius doesn’t even want to speculate at the origin of, and his hands and feet are blue, most likely from the cold. 

Marius is not the awkward boy he was five years ago. He’s a father now, and being with Cosette has taught him to trust his instincts more. “Everyone is here,” he says. “Well, everyone that’s left. I’m assuming you don’t want to walk into mixed company like this.”

Enjolras shakes his head, slightly.

“I’ll get you upstairs and then explain what happened to them. Then I’ll have Joly come up and take a look at you if that’s okay.”

Enjolras shakes his head again. “There’s no time.”

“What’s the matter? Enjolras?”

“They still have him.”

“What do you mean?”

Enjolras sways on his feet, gripping the edge of the door for strength. “Please. They’ll hurt him once they know that I’ve gone. He might be dead already. You have to help me find him. I’ll do anything, please.”

“What are you talking about? Enjolras, I’ll do whatever I can to help, but you have to tell me what you mean. Who is they? Who do they have?”

“Grantaire,” he manages, and faints.


	2. In Which A Rescue Is Planned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so touched by all the generous responses to the first chapter! I hope you'll enjoy this as much. 
> 
> CW for attempted dub-con and mention of past rape and torture.

He is surprised to awaken in a soft feather bed, crisp white sheets against his skin. He doesn’t know how long it has been since he was permitted to sleep in a bed. If it’s happened at all in his captivity, it was a while ago. His memories of those early days are fuzzy, for which he considers himself fortunate.

He risks opening his eyes and looking around the room. Someone is sitting in an armchair in the corner, watching him. He blinks a few times, and recognizes the figure of Joly. Slowly, his memorizes return, and he realizes where he is.

He’s escaped. He lets out a small laugh of triumph. He’d agreed to try, but he’d never thought, not even for a moment, that he might actually make it to safety, might ever see his friends again. He never thought he would sleep in a bed, clothed—as he realizes he is—in a decent and unripped linen nightshirt. He never thought he would draw a breath as a free man.

But his jubilance doesn’t last long. He realizes all too quickly, and yet not quickly enough. If he’s here, if he’s free, than that means—

“Enjolras! You’re awake!” Joly is at his side at once, but there’s no time for that. Enjolras begins pushing himself to his feet. He’s dizzy at first, spinning in place for a second, but he ignores that, beginning a slow, shuffling walk toward the door. 

“How long has it been?”

“You’ve been asleep for twenty hours. Almost a full day.”

Enjolras curses. “We have to go. There’s no time to waste. I have to find Grantaire, have to help him.”

“You’re in no condition to go anywhere except back to bed! You’re half-dead.”

“Which is twice as alive as Grantaire will be—may be already!”

While Joly is struggling with the mathematics on that one, Enjolras makes another ploy for the door. But he’s still weak from the ordeal of escaping, not to mention everything that came before, and Joly is able to bar the door. Eventually, Enjolras slumps, exhausted, and gives up the fight. “Back to bed,” Joly orders sternly. “Or I’ll call Valjean in here and he’ll put you back in bed.”

Enjolras cowers at the severe tone. He doesn’t think his friend would hurt him more than necessary, not really, but it’s hard not to remember after everything. He sits on the edge of the bed, trembling. “Please. If you won’t let me go, send someone.”

“We’ll talk about that soon. You need something to eat first, and a bath.”

“I’ll do anything,” Enjolras says. He tries his best to speak clearly and calmly, even though he’s terrified. Through five long years, Grantaire has sacrificed to protect him from this, again and again. Of course, Grantaire couldn’t protect him from it every time. But it’s been vanishingly rare, not the constant degradation it might have been. And he’s never had to bargain like this. He’s been forced, but he’s never been forced to ask for it. Grantaire had so carefully saved him from that. He’s distantly aware that this should be humiliating, but he can’t feel anything but the panic. It’s almost a relief, to finally be the one giving something up for Grantaire, and not the other way around. “Just tell me what you want, and I’ll do it. I know it doesn’t sound like much of an offer, since there’s nothing to stop you from taking what you’d like anyway. But think how much better it will be this way. No need to fight or struggle, unless you want me to. Everything exactly as you’d like it. No limits.”

“Enjolras, what are you talking about?”

Enjolras frowns. He’s confused. He remembers that Joly likes men, even if it’s not an exclusive preference—he and Boussuet had shared a bed for years. And he’s been told again and again how desirable his body is. But maybe he’s just confused by how much Enjolras has changed, by his transformation from a leader, a man to be respected, to what he is now. “You can have me,” he explains, “if you want, any way you want. Just bring Grantaire here, to safety.”

Joly backs away, covering his mouth with his hand. He doesn’t look allured at all, the way he’s meant to—his posture is one of absolute horror. “Oh. Oh, Enjolras, no.”

Enjolras is ready to weep from frustration. He’s being rejected, that much is obvious. He knows that’s why Master never took him like that. He might have a more beautiful form than Grantaire does, but he’s disgusting on the inside, filthy, and everyone can see it. Master always told him so. He just can’t bear it. He doesn’t have anything to bargain with. He has no money, no clothes, no skills other than his body. And he has to get Grantaire back.

“Hey. Calm down. Take a deep breath,” Joly says, steady and smooth, but Enjolras can’t follow the orders. His breaths come in rough, harsh gasps, his whole chest shaking with painful effort as tears start to spill down his face. He can’t stop thinking about it, can’t stop imagining what Grantaire must be going through—and not just the pain. 

He’d seen it on Grantaire’s face as he fled. Grantaire believed, honestly believed, that Enjolras could leave him behind to suffer and never come back for him. After all these years, he still thinks he is worth so little. Enjolras hadn’t had time to tell him how wrong he was then. He couldn’t disrespect Grantaire’s sacrifice so much. But he’d made it here, hobbling naked through the streets of Paris, hiding behind corners at every sound, flinching from every stranger, only with the strength that one thought gave him. If he could survive, he could save Grantaire. 

He’ll have to go back himself, but he can hardly walk. How will he fight his way in, much less out again? 

“Enjolras, listen to me,” and this time Joly’s voice is harsh, and Enjolras looks up at him, flinching. “Of course we’re going to try and find Grantaire, okay? I was trying to give you a little time, since I’m not sure you’re up to talking about what happened yet, and we’ll need some information from you. But if it’s urgent, then it’s urgent. I believe you.”

Those still aren’t the right words. He doesn’t want Joly to try. He wants him to find Grantaire no matter what it takes. But it’s something. “You’ll find him?”

“We’ll find him. Now rest, and I’ll bring you something to eat.”

Enjolras shakes his head, seeing an opportunity. “No. First, we figure out how we’re getting Grantaire back. Then I’ll eat. After.”

Joly sighs. “Well, at least that’s the Enjolras I know. All right. Do you think you can get dressed on your own, and make it down the stairs?”

Enjolras says yes, but his legs give out from beneath him as soon as he tries to stand. Joly clucks his tongue and helps him back into bed. 

“All right. I guess I’ll have to convey what you say to the others. Though my memory isn’t what it was.”

“It’s fine. Just bring them in.”

“But you’re not dressed.”

“Yes, and for the last five years, I haven’t often had the modesty of a nightdress, let alone anything else. Please stop dawdling, Joly. This is an emergency.”

“All right,” Joly says, and makes his way out of the room. Enjolras listens to the sound of his cane clicking down the hallway, barely able to breathe. While Joly is gone, he practices in his head, what he’s going to say, what he’s going to do. How he’s going to convince them. It’s not easy. He doesn’t think as well as he once did. His thoughts aren’t as sharp, his mind not as quick. He’s spent years, after all, not being allowed to work with his mind at all. 

He doesn’t have long to prepare before the door is opened and a solemn procession files in. He recognizes Mademoiselle Musichetta on Joly’s arm—Madame now, perhaps, given the golden ring around her finger. Feuilly walks with a limp now, and he looks years older. Jehan looks tiny in a costume of all black. Marius seems older and wiser, with a woman Enjolras doesn’t know—that Cosette he was always sighing over, perhaps—on his arm. Behind them is a tall man in his late middle years, still well-built despite his age. The last of the crowd is a young woman, with short dark hair, and a boy who follows her like a shadow. 

“I don’t think you know my wife, Cosette,” Marius begins.

“A pleasure,” she says, with a polite courtesy. 

“Or my father-in-law, Valjean—“

“Please,” Enjolras interrupts. “It doesn’t matter. There isn’t time.” He knows he’s being rude but he can’t bring himself to care. The only thing that matters is getting Grantaire back.

“Enjolras, please,” Joly says, sounding a bit scandalized. 

“Wait,” he says, looking around. “Bahorel? Boussuet?”

Marius shakes his head, very slightly, and Enjolras knows. 

He’d wondered, all this time, who made it and who didn’t. He’d seen Combeferre and Courfeyrac fall at his feet. He’d known that he killed them, his dearest friends in the world. But he’d hoped beyond hope that perhaps, perhaps, all the others might have survived.

Some did. That’s better than it could have been. And one more might still be saved. “I am sorry,” Enjolras says, and, horrified at himself, at his own weakness, begins to weep. He does not ask for forgiveness. He knows he’ll never deserve it. 

It’s the strange young woman who speaks. “There’s time enough for grief later. You said Grantaire’s in trouble?”

“You know ‘Aire?”

“He was good to my brother during a bad time. I’m Éponine. This is Gavroche.”

Grantaire has told him those names before. “Yes. Yes, I know he knows you. You’ll help him, won’t you? You’ll help me save him.”

“‘Course we will,” she replies. “Only you’re gonna have to tell us what you know.”

Enjolras takes a deep breath, sitting up in bed—though he is careful to keep the coverlet smoothed over his lap, seeing how Cosette flinches a little at his motion. It’s been a long time since he’s had to worry about offending the sensibilities of a lady. He’s been preparing for this, running through it. He’s lived through this. Surely he can speak about it. 

“Would it be easier if it weren’t all of us?” comes a suggestion from an unexpected quarter—the young baroness, who, despite her delicate manners, speaks with a steady voice. “Perhaps just a few of those you know well could stay and listen?”

“No,” Enjolras says. “It’s easier if I don’t—if I just do it once.” He looks down at the white pattern of the coverlet on the bed, at his own trembling hands, at anything except the ring of anxious faces that surrounds him. As he’d practiced in his own mind, he recites nothing except for the facts. “Grantaire saved my life, but in doing so we were taken captive by the national guard. He convinced them we were worth more alive than dead. He was right. After a few months we were sold. We were a valuable pair. Together we were easier to control. A private buyer was interested. A scientist. He took the both of us.” 

His words are so bland, so simple, but a wave of memories rushes through his head as he speaks them. He forces himself to concentrate. He doesn’t let himself think of the scream and rush of the barricades, the months of brutality and starvation at the hands of the guards, the auction block, the cold, cold eyes on his naked body. He thinks of Grantaire, instead. Grantaire crying out his name at the barricade. Grantaire throwing himself, naked and half-starved, between Enjolras and the lash of a guardsman. Grantaire’s eyes and hands on him, so warm. 

He gives no more details about their owner, except his name and address in the fashionable sixth district. Enjolras had learned it by chance one day while tidying his study—they addressed him always as Master, never by his name. “Grantaire convinced me to run,” he says, as though making his confession. As though seeking absolution for something he knows is unforgivable. “He told me that it would be easier on him if I weren’t there. He’d be able to fight back if I weren’t in danger. I thought I believed him, but the look on his face…” He can’t possibly describe it. He can’t even bear to remember it. “He doesn’t expect to survive whatever will be done to him for helping me get free. He thinks I’ve left him to die, and he might be right.”

That hangs in the air for a moment, before Éponine interrupts. “Well, we aren’t going to do that, obviously. You’ve said this doctor lives on the Rue de Fleurus?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, relieved to be back to facts.

“And how did he come to be in the business of buying men?”

“I… I don’t know. For his experiments, I suppose.” At the thought of trying to explain why he needed them, what he used them for, Enjolras’ throat dries up. 

“That’s not what I mean. I mean, there must have been some way by which he learned that you were in the possession of the guards, and available for his purchase, no? There is some sort of network of these monsters, of men who buy and sell in unwilling flesh?”

“There… there must be,” Enjolras realizes, nodding. “I hadn’t thought…” But now that he does, it’s clear. “He used to threaten to have us sold again, or sold apart, if we didn’t—comply. It always seemed a very credible threat. And when the guards sold us, there was an auction. It wasn’t just him there.”

“So there is some precedent for this. He wouldn’t be shocked, then, if someone showed up to make him an offer on the slave in his possession now?”

“So soon after I escaped, he must suspect…”

“But if the price is right, perhaps he will not wish to think too much about that.”

“Perhaps not,” Enjolras allows, trying not to hope too much. 

The details are hashed out quickly. Éponine—who he learns is the daughter of a notorious small-time thief and con artist—will conduct the purchase. Valjean will accompany her, for her safety, and to serve as motivation for the doctor to deal with the business as quickly as possible and get them out of his house. She will claim to be representing a noblewoman of her acquaintance, a lady with curious penchants her wealthy husband is unable to perform, but willing to supply. She will take Marius’ purse and show the doctor a large sum of gold. They’ll arrange for Grantaire to be delivered at midnight at a site in a public garden. Valjean and Éponine will pay the slaver and escort Grantaire to the house.

“I don’t like the thought of leaving ‘em with Marius’ purse, is all,” Gavroche says. “Seems they shouldn’t get to make a load of cash off us.”

“It’s only money,” Marius says. 

“Sure, when you’ve always had plenty.” Gavroche shrugs. “Will you let me steal it back off ‘em while they’re on their way back?”

“Don’t,” Valjean says, in his low rumble of a voice. “It’s safer if they leave with their pay. It may offend your sense of justice—which does you credit, my lad—but in this case, the young man’s life is all that matters.”

“What will I do?” Enjolras says. 

“You’ll stay in bed, eat soup and bread, and get your strength back,” Joly insists. “We want you alive to welcome Grantaire when he arrives.”

Enjolras would protest, but he knows he can’t very well try to buy Grantaire from the man he’s just escaped from. So instead he nods.

“If all goes well, you’ll see him by midnight tonight.”

If all goes well. But as Enjolras has learned, again and again over these five long years, that is so rarely how matters go.


	3. In Which A Young Lady Meets With Several Unsavoury Personages, including A Thief, A Felon, and a Villain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do apologize for the cliffhanger! It was supposed to end a bit later, but it ended up longer than I expected, and I thought you might prefer to have this half of the outlined chapter now rather than waiting. I still hope to have the rest of this section up on Saturday as usual, but I can't make any promises unfortunately. 
> 
> BTW, if anyone is curious, the doctor is not unnamed for any particular reason. He is an OC and will cease to be important in about one chapter. He isn't a Les Mis character or connected to anyone else, and this story is really about the Amis (and E/R in particular) so I'm trying to diminish any sense of mystery there may be around him. There isn't! He's just a random terrible person.

As soon as they’re out of the room, Éponine pulls Gavroche aside. He seems to be waiting for it, anyway, and he follows her into the corner of the hall readily. “Do you still know how to find ‘Parnasse?” she asks, pitching her voice low so that no one else will hear. It’s important that the others—and especially Enjolras, who cannot be allowed to believe that there is any danger—think she has absolute faith in her own abilities to carry off this rescue. It’s just as important that she do everything in her power to make sure she can, as much as possible. 

“‘course.” Gavroche, after all, has his own secrets. She’s never tried to take that from him—not that she would succeed, if she did. 

“Tell him to meet me by the stage door of the Odéon in two hours. Tell him I need help.”

Gavroche gives his sister a careful look. She does not flinch away from the clear regard of his blue eyes, although she wants to. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asks, and she frowns. She will never get used to being scolded by her own baby brother, though he’s grown half into a man while he was missing. 

“I asked you to find him, not to give me a lecture.”

“I’m just sayin’.” He gestures vaguely around them, as if to indicate the whole house and everything in it, their whole new lives, the safety and comfort in which they now live, his own bright future. “This is so much better. You really want to get tangled up with him again?”

“Want to? Of course not. So let me know when you think of a safer way to figure out who is buying and selling slaves in Paris.”

Gavroche frowns back at her, but he doesn’t argue any longer. It’s still so strange to see her own expressions on his face, and her heart swells a little within her chest. Her brother, precious and vulnerable and brave and strange. She is determined to protect him, and yet he says, “Let me come with you, then. When you meet him.”

“He’ll talk easier if he thinks we’re alone,” she offers, but it’s a weak argument, and she knows it, conceding, “You can follow, but only if you don’t get caught.”

“Do I ever?”

She has to give him that one. 

While Gavroche is gone, she goes over the rest of the plans with Jean. She likes the old man, quiet and strange though he may be. He’s seen things. He knows the world much better than the wealthy young students that have somehow become her family. 

He’s to play her bodyguard, strong and silent. She’ll charm the man, if he can be charmed. She’s dealt with all sorts of terrible men since her youth, and they tend to like her even when she despises them most. She imagines she’ll be able to handle it. 

It isn’t hard to slip away from him, though. He goes in for his afternoon tea with Cosette, and Éponine simply walks out the front door. 

She meets Montparnasse at the appointed hour. He’s already there when she arrives, leaning against a wall for maximum effect. She resists the urge to roll her eyes. He can be outrageous, but it would be a mistake not to remember that, for all his theatrics, he is a dangerous man. 

“Mademoiselle Thénardier,” he exclaims, and bows. “What a pleasure.”

“Montparnasse.” 

For all that she’d tried to convince Gavroche to stay at home, it’s a relief to be just barely aware of him, hidden in the nearby crowd, watching. “To what do I owe this unexpected delight? I have not heard from you in some time.”

“Walk with me,” she suggests, and takes his offered arm. It’s an old technique of theirs, to appear like any other couple, and not to be overheard as they walk, not staying in any one place for long enough to let their conversation be understood by a curious passerby. They stroll towards the river, and Éponine speaks in a low voice. “I have recently learned that a friend of mine, missing for some time, has been… in the company of a certain doctor. Perhaps you know of him, and of his business?”

She repeats the man’s name, and sees the briefest moment’s worth of blank horror pass across Montparnasse’s handsome face. She does not let her satisfaction show, but she feels it.She’d been sure that Montparnasse would have heard of such a fellow, sure that this meeting—for all the dangers that attend it—was worth the making. “I’m not sure,” he says, but though his voice does not waver she knows that he’s lying.

“If your memory happened to be jogged on this subject, say, if you were trying to convince the good doctor to part with one of his subjects, how might you do so?”

“You have two options,” Montparnasse says, abandoning his pretense of ignorance quickly enough now that he has the opportunity to show off his own knowledge. “To steal, or to buy.” They are walking along the bank of the Seine now, speaking in low voices as they pass other well-dressed couples. Éponine wonders to herself how many of them are not what they seem. “The first, I would not recommend. This is a dangerous man. Well-connected. The security on his home, intense. None of his… guests have ever left before their stay was up. This tells me that he is very careful. It will be hard to take from him what is his.”

“His guests do leave, though?”

“Indeed. When he has all he wants from them. When they can give no more.”

“And that is?”

“Sometimes months. Sometimes years. Those that he finds, often do not ever leave. I would not sell to him myself, though I had my worst enemy in my power. What he has, he will not part with—except if he gives it up willingly.”

Éponine nods. She had come to the same conclusion. “And so, how do I get him to give it?”

“Have you forgotten all that I taught you, sweet?”

She doesn’t let herself flinch at that, as much as she hates his artificially saccharine tone. As much as she hates the memory of what once passed between them, of who she herself used to be. She has to have the upper hand here, and that means convincing Montparnasse that he doesn’t bother her. It’s not easy. He’s always known her well, always been able to read her more easily than either of them could read a book. “Remind me.”

“What do honest men and wicked men both need?”

This comes to her readily. It’s a truth she learned with her mother’s milk. “Gold.”

“Mounds and mounds of gold. Rich dishonest men have more need of it than rich honest ones—there’s always some reason he can’t use his own stacks of money for whatever it is that he’s up to. If he sells you this friend, he gets a purse no one can trace.”

“That was my plan. I’m glad you approve.”

“There’s just one thing, sweet Éponine.”

“And that is?”

“You know what he’ll do with the money you give him, don’t you?”

She does. The others haven’t thought it through—they’re too naive, still. Even after the barricades, they still believe, deep down, in things like the goodness of man and the possibility of hope. Éponine has no such illusions. She knows that every sou she gives this monster will be invested in his horrid enterprise all over again, that to save Grantaire she will be sacrificing some hypothetical other or even others, some new wretches this monster will buy to break. “I know.” 

“Does it not sit ill with your shiny new conscience?”

“My conscience is none of your business, Montparnasse.”

He gives her another of those sarcastic bows. “Of course not, mademoiselle.”

She does the first thing she can think of, which is to stick out her tongue at him. Fortunately, he laughs. 

“Might I buy you a drink?” he asks, gesturing at one of the many cafés along the river walk. 

“I’m afraid not. I’m conducting this business tonight. Best to stay sharp.”

“Another time, then.”

“Another time,” she says, and she almost means it. She forgets, at times, that the worst thing about Montparnasse is that she likes him. 

As she walks away, he calls her name. She turns back, and he meets her eyes, quite strangely serious. “Éponine?”

“Yes?”

“Do be careful. I know you know your way around. I don’t underestimate you, you know that. But this man… he is no ordinary mark.”

She takes it the way it is meant. A kindness, for all his patronizing tone. “Thank you, ‘Parnasse.”

It’s a short walk back to the mansion. When she is back in her own rooms, she changes her clothes. Yes, she lives with Marius and Cosette. Yes, the man she used to be in love with and his wife. Yes, it’s more than a little strange. But she doesn’t have Feuilly’s pride, and she does have Gavroche. Between some occasional awkwardness at the breakfast table and Gavroche growing into manhood on the streets, she’ll take the former option. 

She costumes herself carefully for this occasion. She’s always thought of her work wear as just that, as costumes. She likes to dress in boys’ clothes, practical and comfortable, and now that she doesn’t need to fool men as often, she keeps her hair short. But it doesn’t bother her to return to skirts, not when it’s for such an urgent reason. It’s a tool like any other. 

She wears a simple skirt of light grey wool and a white blouse, tying her hair beneath a blue-printed scarf to hide how short it is. She examines herself in the mirror with some contentment. She looks poor and plain, as she is, but also pretty, therefore feminine, therefore—as men will insist on seeing it—innocent.

She prefers her trousers, sure. But there’s a thrill from this, too. A thrill from knowing that she isn’t what they think she is.

She swishes her skirts around her, stands up straight, and goes to meet Jean in the foyer. He seems to have also costumed himself particularly for the event—he’s wearing plain black trousers and a white chemise with material thin enough that it is practically translucent. His physical strength is on display, as is the brand on his chest which marks him forever as a felon, a dangerous man. He keeps it covered almost all the time. Éponine has never caught a glimpse of the mark before. She recognizes, the wordlessly, the sacrifice that Jean is making for a man he doesn’t even know, revealing the past he has worked so hard to keep hidden so that this doctor will know what he’s dealing with. 

“Shall we?” Jean says, offering her his arm. 

“Thank you.” 

They walk together, speaking of ordinary things. It’s best to carry on a conversation at moments like this, to defray the suspicion of passerby as well as to keep oneself calm. They talk about the antics of Aimée, now three years old and just big enough to get herself into trouble, about the twins, Georges and Fantine, who at six months do little but sleep and look adorable. They discuss whether or not Marius and Cosette will have another—they all hope not, the house is crowded enough as it is—and how much Gavroche is coming into his own as a surrogate elder brother. It would be a pleasant stroll, were it not for the knowledge of what they are about to do. 

The sun has set fully by the time they arrive at the address Enjolras gave them. The house is as grand as one might expect from its address, with several floors, stately windows, and a manicured garden in the front. There are no candles lit in any of the windows. 

Éponine goes to knock on the door. She takes a deep breath, gathering her courage, and hears the deadbolt slide open. 

“Can I help you?” says a voice, a smooth and gentle voice. Éponine wonders if she would find it so sinister, were it not for the fact that she knows to whom it belongs. 

“My name is Éponine. I work for a young lady who wishes that her name not be disclosed. I am given to understand that you are in possession of a certain item that she has an interest in acquiring,” she recites, trying to make her script sound unpracticed. 

“Come in,” he says, and opens the door. 

She looks him over, top to bottom. He isn’t what she was expecting. If you asked what she’d envisioned, she might have described someone not unlike Montparnasse—tall, handsome, dark-haired, and well-dressed. Instead, she finds a slight man, barely as tall as she is. He’s slim in build, with small spectacles and greying hair. She estimates him to be about fifty-five years of age, slightly younger than Jean. 

She steps into the house, into the dark and unlit foyer. Even her slippered shoes clack on the uncarpeted flagstone. 

The doctor tries to close the door after her. “Your guard waits outside, mademoiselle.”

“Then I go on my way with my business undone.” She turns, ready to show him that she means it. Of course, she doesn’t, but he can’t know that. 

“Oh, very well.” The doctor makes a face, but bows and lets them in. She follows past him. “Can I offer you any refreshment? A cup of tea?”

“No, thank you.”

“All business, I see. Very well. I won’t keep you longer than necessary. Join me in the parlor, please.”

She and Jean walk through the dark hall, to a small, cheerfully lit sitting room. She takes the offered seat on a gilded fauteuil. Jean stands behind her, menacingly large. “Thank you for your hospitality, monsieur.”

“But of course. Word travels quickly, I see.”

“Oh?”

“If I guess aright, you are interested in my most recent experiment. One who only yesterday became quite useless to me. You see, I admit this frankly, because I am an honest man. Perhaps I might drive up my prices, pretend it is still precious to me. It is not. But still, I think, your friend will wish to give me a good price.”

“To repay your investment. And to ensure your silence.”

“So you see, mademoiselle, we understand one another.”

Éponine reaches into one of her pockets, draws out Marius’ purse, and lets it plop into the man’s outstretched hand so he can feel its weight. “This, I think, makes a start to repay you. You shall have as much again once the merchandise is delivered. This you keep if I like what I see.”

He nods. “That seems only fair. I take it you should like to inspect it now?”

“I would, thank you.”

He leads them through the house, and to a flight of stairs heading downward. Éponine focuses on her breathing. She won’t let him see how frightened she is. At least Jean is there, a steady, strong presence just behind her. Without him, she would never have the courage to take the first step down into the darkness. She is disgusted at herself, at her cowardice, when her friends have suffered here for years. 

And she goes down, and down, into the dark. She tries, impossible though she knows it is, to prepare herself for what she is about to see.


	4. In Which An Old Man Learns Something New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this is a day late!
> 
> Content note: aftermath of physical violence/torture and rape. Some very dark thoughts. Mention of homophobia-motivated violence and implied corrective rape.

Jean Valjean is no longer a young man. If he was ever naive, that state passed him by some decades ago. He has been imprisoned. He has been enslaved. He has dragged a young man’s body through the sewers of Paris. He has loved and lost. He has mourned a family. He has fought a battle. He has raised a child and seen her wed. He has held an infant grandchild in his arms. All the pleasures and sorrows of life, he might have said, he knew already. He would not have thought he had much innocence to lose. 

He was wrong. 

His concern at this moment is mostly for the girl. As tough as Éponine likes to believe herself, she’s still little more than a child, the same age as his Cosette. He’s given up on the notion that children can be protected from anything, but he still wishes he could save her this. She shouldn’t be here, but there’s also no other way. It would be better, perhaps, had Valjean come alone, but he wouldn’t know what to say the way she does. Still, he can’t help but regret the nightmares the girl will certainly have, the way he fears this may haunt her forever.

And, he admits to himself, it’s better to worry about her than about the man in front of him. For if he begins to think about what has been done to this friend of his son’s, this Grantaire, he will never stop weeping, and that will throw the whole plan into a state of ruin. It doesn’t matter that this boy is a stranger to him. It doesn’t matter that he’s seen terrible things, things he’ll never speak of. It doesn’t matter that he has sixty years of hard experience behind him to show him that the world has never been a kind place. Nothing matters in the face of this. This is the worst thing he’s ever seen in his life. 

He’s seen men stripped and beaten before. That’s nothing new. But something about the way he’s lying there, helpless, is different. 

Ordinarily, a man who has been hurt curls up, tries to protect himself. A man who is left naked makes some attempt to cover his private parts, with his hands or what he might find around him. This was true even for the saddest of Toulon’s wretches. It is not true of Grantaire. 

He lies unnaturally still, spread-eagled on the ground. His whole body is on horrific display. He gives no sign that he has recognized them, or even that he is aware that he is no longer alone on the cold floor of this basement cell. For a moment, Valjean is afraid that they may have come too late, but his chest rises and falls in an unsteady rhythm, though it’s barely perceptible, as if he’s trying to repress even this most natural of movements. He’s still breathing, in spite of everything. 

It’s too terrible to describe, and too terrible not to. 

Valjean left his nightmares of Toulon behind many years ago. With the birth of Aimée, he’s even forgotten the horrors of the barricades. Life will always have difficulties, true, but he no longer lives in terror. 

This, this he will never forget. This will follow him to the grave and, he fears, beyond it. 

Grantaire does not react to their presence. He lies there, as unmoving as the dead, as Valjean, without meaning to, catalogues his many injuries. From the top of his head to his feet, barely an inch of him is unbattered. He’s filthy all over and too thin, his skin stretched over his bones. His hair is tangled into painful-looking knots. Beneath that is a face that must never have been handsome, made uglier through suffering. His green eyes are slightly open, but glassy, as though he sees nothing. He stares directly ahead into the darkness, unblinking. The light from the doctor’s candle illuminates enough that he can be seen, but he doesn’t look around, shows no curiosity about who the intruders into his desolate little cell are. His nose has been broken recently, and blood drips from it, down the side of his bruised cheek. His lips are stretched, cracked, and bloodied—more than a split lip, but instead the torn remnants of long dehydration. 

There are dark fingerprints up and down his throat, and worse, thin scratches as though someone has scraped at his throat with a knife. The lad looks just as undernourished as his friend, perhaps a little more so. Valjean could easily count his ribs, in spite of the lurid purple bruising across his torso. There are brands scattered across his chest, but not the deliberate marks that convicts like himself bear. These look haphazard, random. Valjean remembers too well the pain of the hot iron pressing into his own skin. He can’t imagine enduring it again, and again, and again, as Grantaire surely must have, to judge from the dozens of blistering wounds scattered across his torso and thighs. Some of the wounds are shiny, some almost scarred over. He’s been hurt like this intentionally, for the pleasure of tormenting him. 

Two of his fingers are bent backwards as though broken. His limbs haven’t been spared torture either, covered in the thin lines a whip or cane would leave behind. And between his legs is—

Valjean looks away. He shouldn’t be seeing this. This is private. Just because Grantaire has no ability to cover himself up, to resume a little modesty, doesn’t mean Valjean should let himself see the visceral evidence of what has been done to his body. And yet it’s so hard not to look.

He’s seen men raped before, as well as tortured. It happened sometimes at Toulon, though many of the guards did their best to stop it, more out of a concern for discipline in their ranks than for the well-being of the unfortunates under their control. It never happened to him, as he broke the arm of the first man to try. After that, they kept their hands to themselves when Valjean was concerned. He was hardly the type of prisoner to attract that sort of attention, anyway. More frequently, there were affairs between prisoners, generally carried on with the consent, if not the enthusiasm, of both. He’s always turned away from the evidence of such acts before. He’s always been able to. Now, though he looks away, averting his eyes out of what concern he can display for Grantaire, he can’t leave. He can’t stop thinking about this, about what has happened—about what kind of monster could possibly sustain desire for a man so injured, so utterly broken. 

At least it’s nearly over, Valjean reminds himself. If he manages everything as it’s intended, Grantaire’s torment will be over by the end of tonight. And the long process of healing can begin, if that will even be possible for him. 

Suddenly, Éponine is speaking. Valjean flinches at the break in the silence. He’s been so caught in his own head that he’d forgotten the situation all of them are in, the urgency of it. He forces his attention back to the present moment, to Éponine’s words. 

“Explain why you said he’s of no use to you any longer. Have you damaged him permanently?”

“Of course not.” The man’s voice sends shivers up the back of Valjean’s spine. If Éponine feels the same way, she doesn’t react. “Of course, I’ve done everything shy of that, after what this trash did.”

“Which is?”

“I like to buy them as pairs. Brothers, fathers and sons, friends, whichever. But best of all is like this one—a sodomite and its lover.”

If that’s true, if Enjolras and Grantaire were fond of each other in that way, Éponine didn’t know that. Valjean can tell from her reaction, from the slight tensing of her slim shoulders. The situation is just beginning to make sense to him, as much as it ever will. 

“I am a man of science, you see. My goal? To determine the nature of perversion. How does a man become a freak? Can you break him of it?”

“And can you?” she asks.

“Usually. This one, no. I thought I was getting quite close. He tricked me, and the other one got away. So now I can do anything I like to him—and it lets me—but that’s no use for my experiments. He’ll be quite a valuable servant, though. He may never have learned how to be normal, but he has learned to obey or be hurt. That much he knows.”

“And that’s what we need,” Éponine says. Valjean is silently grateful that he doesn’t have to do any of the talking. Ordinarily, he doesn’t appreciate those who assume that because he is tall and strong, he is also stupid, but in this case, he wouldn’t know what to say. 

“So we are agreed then.”

“I need a demonstration,” she says. “That what you say is true.”

Valjean doesn’t know what she’s up to, but he doesn’t question her. And it begins to make sense, when the doctor nods. “You. Up.” He aims a sharp kick at Grantaire’s side, and the other man almost leaps to his feet. He stands, legs spread, eyes downcast. “You see,” the doctor continues, addressing Éponine now. “It hurts him to stand, but he obeys instantly. He knows better than to do anything other than what he’s told, no matter how much I hurt him.”

“So he’s afraid of you.”

“Oh, it’s more than that. He knows his own uselessness quite well. He knows this is his place now, forever. Don’t you?”

Grantaire gives a small nod, and then speaks, cringing as if he’s afraid this will somehow be the wrong words. “Yes, Master.”

“And he’ll obey anyone?”

“You belong to this woman now,” the doctor says, gesturing vaguely at Éponine. “Obey her orders as you would mine.”

Grantaire looks at Éponine, his eyes not meeting hers. He does not speak. 

“Tell him to do something. A demonstration, if you will.” 

Again, Valjean feels fortunate that his own role is to be silently intimidating. He wouldn’t be able to think of something as quickly as Éponine does, something that won’t reveal their deception or further injure Grantaire. 

“On your knees,” Éponine says, and he hits the floor with a crack that makes Valjean swallow a wince. It must hurt, but there’s no indication of pain on his face. “And he’s always so compliant?” Éponine asks.

“Yes. The only thing I could never get him to do was hurt his beloved little amant. I always hoped I would break him to it, one of these days. Thought I was close, if I must tell you the truth. Vain of me, I suppose, for I didn’t succeed at all. No, now the other one is free, and this one does anything I ask with no resisting at all, which is no fun anyways. I’d have given him up at this point either way, but now he’s a failure instead of a success.”

“And what do you do with them, after they break?”

“Then they can be separated and sold individually, or as pairs, whatever the buyer prefers. I used to keep a few to help with my work, but I’ve sold them all off now. I need the money more than I need slaves, and besides I prefer to work alone. It’s merely a matter of keeping them physically subdued, which is easier than you would think. A few broken bones at the beginning, careful application of chains and rope, and before long they’re too afraid of you to even think of running. I’d never lost one before, and I’m rather furious about it. Thus his injuries.”

“You don’t think they bring down the price a little? It’ll be a while before he’s up to working again.”

“Oh, he knows better than to think a few little scratches get him out of his duties. Besides, some people like that sort of thing.”

Valjean shudders at the thought that anyone could wish for this to be done to another person, could enjoy it. But Éponine keeps her cool. “Good answer. We’ll take him. Find him some clothes.”

“The rest of the money, mademoiselle—“

“My man will bring it by tomorrow, if everything is as it should be. I’m sure that won’t be a problem?”

“Not at all, not at all. I would just keep in mind, you know, that I have done some favors to some very powerful people. I shouldn’t like to think what might happen, if I don’t get what I’m owed.”

“A fair point,” Éponine says. “I am sure we appreciate the reminder.”

“I’ll get him something to wear, then.” The man starts back up the stairs, and it seems for a second like they’ll get the chance to be alone, to speak freely, before he says, “Come along.”

They follow, Grantaire trailing along behind. He is quickly dressed in a shirt and trousers, not wincing as the rough fabric falls over his wounds. The doctor begins to count his money. “This much again?”

“And it’ll be here tomorrow, if my mistress is pleased.”

“Very good. Enjoy your evening, mademoiselle.”

“And you, monsieur.”

With that, their business is concluded. Valjean’s heart is still racing in his chest. He almost can’t believe it was so easy to leave with Grantaire. He’s about to take the man into his arms, to help him home, when Éponine stops him. 

“What?”

“We’re being followed,” she hisses in a low voice. “We need to seem like everything is as he would expect until we reach home. That’s why I told Cosette to wait for us downstairs.”

“He’s following us?” Valjean is horrified at the thought, at the notion that this monster will soon know where his daughter lives. 

“Yes, but don’t worry. This is all part of the plan.”

Displeased, he has no choice but to continue along, Grantaire limping behind him. The streets of Paris are mostly empty at this hour of the night, so no one notices the strange trio they make, a girl thief and a weary old man and a battered prisoner, making their way towards home.


	5. In Which The Lady of the House Welcomes a Guest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all have my solemn word of honor that the reunion WILL be in the next chapter. I'm sorry this one has so little Enjolras or Grantaire in it.

Cosette sits in her favorite armchair, her back to the window. This is precisely where Éponine has instructed her to be, and so it is where she is. She sits, and she does not move, and she thinks, and she waits. 

Normally, Cosette is not one to do what any one tells her. She particularly does not care to take orders when they’re direct, but even implied ones, even assumptions about what ladies ought to do, or not do, grate on her nerves. When she was a child, her papa used to tell her that she was more of a lark than a dove. Wild and beautiful, he meant, and she treasured the appellation. 

The life she lives now is not that of an uncaged bird. She knows it is a privilege to be a lady, to be the Baroness de Pontmercy, and yet it is also a burden she carries on her lovely pale shoulders everywhere she goes. Title, rank, and all it symbolizes, her husband’s past and her children’s future. She knew what she was accepting along with Marius’ proposal, and she does not regret her choice. She never could. Still, she is careful that everyone—and especially Marius—should know that she has a mind of her own, still, and that she uses it whenever she pleases. 

Tonight, though, she is quite willing to yield to other people’s judgements. Indeed, she’s quite relieved that Éponine is in charge here. Éponine has been so many things to her throughout the years: foster-sister, tormenter, rival, and now, strangely, friend. In this, Cosette also gives her the role of guide, and gladly, too. 

For as much as Cosette knows that she is more than she seems, more than a decorated doll to be admired, she also knows what she is not. Her experience in the underworld of France ended before her seventh birthday, when she was adopted by her Papa. He shielded her from his own criminal past, and from whatever dubiously-legal goings-on were needed to keep them both safe and establish their new lives. Éponine was not so fortunate, and she knows a great many things Cosette does not. Cosette intends to listen. 

So Éponine said that at midnight, Cosette was to sit at the window, wearing a fine gown and pearls. She was to hide her face, but make sure her jewels, her dress, in short, her station, was clearly visible. And that she was to wait, so she sits, and she waits. She took her position in this chair as soon as the two of them left the house. It’s been hours now, and she dare not move lest she miss her cue. How strange, that in playing the role of the imperious lady of the house she is to have her own actions totally constrained. 

Still, it is not as miserable an evening as it might seem. For another woman, anxiety might eat away the hours, but Cosette passes the time calmly, in thinking and planning. She’s gotten good at it. She’s had to, after the way the earliest years of her life went. She never had a toy to play with, never had any company except from the Thénardier girls, who would never play with her. She’s long since gotten over feeling sorry for herself for that. She knows she’s luckier than many. She has her papa, and now she has Marius and three beautiful children, a lovely house and a lively bunch of friends. She is a fortunate woman, in a world where many suffer all their lives the way she did as a young girl. But she hasn’t forgotten, and that’s served her well. She begins, as always, by running through the situations that need her attention. 

She has several problems at hand currently. One is the return of the absent man, Grantaire. That issue, though, Éponine has taken charge of. She will either succeed or fail. If she fails, a new plan will be made. If she succeeds, they will proceed from there. At present, there’s nothing Cosette can do about it. She mentally removes it from her list or problems. 

Another problem is that her beloved father, a man no longer in his best years, is currently out, either walking into danger or in the midst of it. He is facing a dangerous and sadistic foe, who may or may not be reasonable, and whose desires and weaknesses remain unknown. Once again, though, Cosette can do nothing about that. She has never been able to stop her papa from doing what he believes to be right. And she knows that he can take care of himself, even as he begins to age—and that he will. After all this time, he finally has something to live for. She’d given him a stern talking-to after the barricades, when he seemed intent on fading into oblivion to leave her to her happiness. As if she could ever be happy without him. She’d made him see that, in the end. Then when Aimée came along, and then the twins, he gave up on the notion of dying tragically altogether and settled in to being a doting grandfather. It’s a good thing, too, for two babies and a toddler make for quite a handful, and although Marius adores all three of his children, he’s too clumsy to hold anything as delicate as a newborn. No, her father knows that he is loved and needed, and he’ll make his way back home. It’ll hardly be the first time he’s faced impossible dangers and survived. She has to trust that he’ll figure it out, as there’s nothing she can do. 

Then there are the background worries, which never go away. Will Marius, dear and sweet and hopeless as he is, ever work out what to do with himself? It’s not pressing, as the babies are still small enough to thrive best with both parents at home, but she’d like to see him busy with something. Are the little ones all right? Will they grow up to be as strong and brave as she imagines—or perhaps rather prays—that they will? Is the world becoming better, or is it the same violent mess it has always been? But none of these problems are likely to be solved by Cosette at any point, nor by anyone tonight. 

The immediate problem is the man currently in her house—to be specific, Enjolras, who is pacing holes in the floor of her best guest bedroom. He, too, has a place in this plan—though he is less willing to accept his role than Cosette is to perform hers. Enjolras has been told that he must stay out of sight. Cosette understands why, obviously. The entire point of her own charade is their suspicion that Papa and Éponine are going to be followed home by this terrible man, that he intends to inspect the situation he’s selling his slave into. The danger is that he will discover the connection to the barricades, but that’s unlikely. Most people don’t know that about Marius, and he won’t be in sight. It’ll just be Cosette, or rather Euphrasie Fauchelevant, the Baroness de Pontmercy, an unquestionably well-bred young woman of good looks but uncertain birth, elevated into the ranks of high society by her advantageous marriage. Exactly the sort of person who might expect her whims—even if that whim were to own another human being—to be fulfilled without question. 

The plan is that he’ll see her, recognize her, be reassured, and then leave. Éponine has mysteriously assured them all that she intends to take it all from there, which Cosette has silently assumed means that violence is in store. However, this plan also depends—and depends absolutely—on this household not being recognized as one composed of Grantaire’s friends. Éponine is quite convinced that this monstrous doctor would never yield up his victim to rescue, only sell him into further torment, and so he cannot be permitted to discover that Enjolras is here and safe, for the continued freedom of both men. 

Cosette understands this.

Enjolras does not.

He’d wept and screamed himself hoarse, when they told him. Marius is with him now—or rather, not with him, but sitting on the other side of his bedroom door. Enjolras won’t let him in. 

Joly had proposed locking the door to make sure he doesn’t try to escape, but Papa had vetoed the plan. 

“If he wants to run, he will run. We have no right to keep him captive—especially not after what has been done to him.”

As usual, no one wanted to disagree with Papa when he got that stern, solemn, faraway tone in his voice. So the door was left unlocked, but with Marius outside it, to make sure Enjolras does not descend the stairs at just the wrong moment and endanger the plan.

Cosette tries to focus on what she can do. She’d made soup and tried to get Enjolras to eat some, but he could only manage a few weak spoonfuls. Joly explained to her that it wasn’t a good idea to press him too much, that after malnutrition he could become very ill if permitted to eat too much or persuaded to eat too quickly. She’d tried to get him to sleep again, but he wouldn’t. She’d tried to listen, in case he wanted to speak of his ordeal, but all he would talk about was Grantaire, when Grantaire would be found, what he could do to get them to rescue Grantaire. It was enough to break her heart, and it didn’t leave very much for her to help with.

Nonetheless, she begins with a plan of action, composed mentally for later use. This has been a habit of hers for many years, and it has served her well. 

She’ll start by talking to Papa. Years ago, he’d taken in a frightened, traumatized little girl—a sort of slave, though of a different kind. He’d helped her heal, and healed himself in the process. Perhaps he’ll know how to begin. 

She’ll keep up the regular meals and the access to clothes, bed, and baths. It’s the least she can do. 

She’ll also speak with Marius. He knew Enjolras before, and will know what he enjoyed, what he might wish to go back to doing now that he has his freedom. 

She is pondering a fourth step when she hears a whistle. That’s Gavroche’s signal to her—though she doesn’t love that the lad, only fifteen, is so involved in this, she’s grateful for it—that they’re at the front gate. She straightens her back, turns her face forward so that only her back can be seen from the window, and waits. 

She counts in her head to keep calm. She has not yet reached quatre vingt when the door opens. 

Éponine is the first one through the door. She walks quickly through, her head held high, without sparing a glance for the odd pair trailing in her wake. She bobs a curtsy—a clear indication that they are being watched, since Éponine would certainly never lower her head in greeting on a normal occasion. 

“How did the business go?” Cosette asks. She keeps her voice pleasant, her words neutral—she does not know who might be hearing them. 

“Well. He can’t hear us, and there’s little chance he can read my lips from where he is—beyond the gate. He’ll just see two bodies. You’re best to take Grantaire by the arm and help him upstairs and out of sight. It will look like…” Éponine trails off, not finishing the sentence, but Cosette understands. 

After that, her father walks through the door. He looks a bit more careworn, but unharmed. Beside him is a man, or rather the shell of one. This must be Grantaire—haggard and too-thin, visibly bruised and starved, beaten and filthy. He does not look up, but rather trembles at her careful approach. He flinches back when she touches him, but she can’t show hesitancy while they’re still being watched. 

“Let’s get you upstairs,” she says, pitching her voice soothingly, like she would when speaking to one of her babies. Grantaire only trembles, visibly terrified. 

She just hopes that his reunion with Enjolras, who she knows—though Grantaire, it seems, does not—is waiting just up these stairs, will bring both men a measure of hope. She hopes that the worst is over.


	6. In Which There is a Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs for this chapter: sidewise reference to suicide, semi-graphic description (though not depiction) of violence, including rape.

He doesn’t know where he is. 

It’s not his place to question, he knows that. And no one is torturing him at this exact moment in time. He probably ought to just go ahead and be grateful for that while he can get it. 

He isn’t. 

But he tries to focus on the most important thing. The one and only important thing, which is that Enjolras is no longer under Master’s control. He doesn’t know whether or not Enjolras has gotten free, but he tries to believe that he is. He has to believe that. Otherwise, he never would have survived this last day. 

He tries not to think about it. It doesn’t matter what he’s been through, even if the wounds are still stinging and his ass is still dripping. Dwelling on the past gets him nowhere. The important thing is adjusting to his new circumstances, and being good. 

For the last five years, he’s tried to do as much for Enjolras as he possibly can. There was little enough he could do when they were both in captivity together, but now there’s almost nothing. His only hope is being useful to Master. If he could keep Master happy, if he could prove that he was still obedient, still broken, without Enjolras there, than maybe Master wouldn’t go after Enjolras. Maybe he could still do something, anything at all, to protect Enjolras. Or at least keep Master distracted and pleased enough not to want Enjolras back, not to miss his prettier, livelier toy. He could be satisfied with a perfectly-behaved Grantaire, ugly and insufficient but always, always obedient. 

He has to believe that. Otherwise, Grantaire has nothing to live for. Otherwise, he’ll break his promise to Enjolras and he doesn’t want to do that. He’s let Enjolras down again and again already, perhaps most terribly by saving his life, saving him for this. The least he can do is give Enjolras back his freedom, whatever the cost. It makes the pain easier, to believe he’s buying something of worth with it. Enjolras’ life is worth so much more than anything Grantaire could ever suffer, after all. 

Of course, he knows he’s almost definitely lying to himself. After all, he’s been sold now. He no longer belongs to Master. He probably shouldn’t even keep thinking of him as Master. The new owners might not like that. 

He had listened very carefully during the conversation Master had with the two strangers, and especially with the woman. He’ll belong to a woman now, but not this one, apparently. Another woman, one he hasn’t met yet. He hasn’t belonged to a woman yet. They were owned by the Guards, and then Master. He’s never even been loaned out to one for the night. He can’t imagine what it will be like. So far, though, his situation has improved over the course of this evening. 

It’s cold out, and the cobbles of the streets make his bare feet throb, but he’s grateful to be permitted to walk outside. When Master had purchased him and Enjolras, they’d been tied up in a trunk and transported in the back of some kind of cart. Moments outside since their captivity began have been infrequent and precious. Though he finds himself shivering in the open air, with so much of his bare skin exposed, and though the breeze stings on his torn back, he’s still grateful for the chance to breathe in the freshness and feel the wind on his skin. 

Also, as previously noted, no one is currently trying to torture him. Grantaire, at long last, has learned to take his victories where he can get them. 

Neither of his new owner’s servants speak to him during the walk. That isn’t much of a surprise, he supposes. He’s beneath talking to, except for brief commands. He knows that. He used to love to talk, even when he didn’t have much to say. It’s strange to remember that now. The habit has long since been beaten out of him. Now, he is silent, except when he’s ordered to speak, or sometimes to beg. That’s usually only for Enjolras’ sake. 

Usually. He’s weak. 

All too soon, they are turning towards a tall gated property. He allows himself to feel a moment of disappointment. His time outside will soon be over. 

What he doesn’t let himself feel is fear. He has to keep believing that this will be better. Oh, he knows this isn’t a rescue. Master would never sell him to someone kind. But perhaps a woman won’t be able to inflict as much pain—though there is the manservant, a hulking monster of a man despite his age. Perhaps she won’t want to. She might have bought him for other things. As Master was so fond of telling him, he may have an ugly face, but his body is pleasing. 

It’s been a long time since he’s been with a woman. Even before they were captured, he had lost interest in chasing girls. He doesn’t think about why. Instead, he hopes he remembers how to be pleasing. He wants to avoid pain, as much as possible. 

He follows them up a long pathway, towards a grand house with lights on in the front parlor. The man opens the door, letting the woman walk through. He follows, the man just one step behind him. They’re guarding him more carefully than he’s used to, but he supposes that makes sense. They just bought him. They don’t know that he won’t run away. 

He won’t, of course. Even though it’s probably not true that he’s doing anything to protect Enjolras by staying with them. Even though he might be able to scream for help and get some. Even though they might not even bother to follow. He’s always been a coward, even before. 

The parlor is a pretty room. The floors are softly carpeted, the walls painted a pale peach. There are large, comfortable-looking armchairs, and in the center, a low table that holds a vase of fresh flowers. 

In one of the chairs is a woman. He assumes, from context clues, that this is his mistress. She is younger than he expected, and surprisingly good-looking, even beautiful. She has a soft, round face, with brown hair swept up in a fashionable style. He tries to imagine what could drive a woman like this, beautiful and wealthy, to buy a lover rather than simply taking one of the admirers she must have. Then he stops imagining that, because it’s terrifying. He’ll find out soon enough, anyway, whatever it is. 

She looks him up and down. Her dark eyes are sparkling, intelligent. He doesn’t make eye contact, of course. He knows better than that. He can feel himself shaking under the intensity of her regard, and he curses himself for it. He tries to be ready for it when she reaches out to touch him, her cool, soft fingers on the curve of his arm, but he flinches. 

“Let’s get you upstairs,” she says. Her voice is sweet and gentle, and he does not let himself think about what must lie beneath it. 

He follows obediently up the stairs. His feet are leaving muddy and bloody stains on her lovely carpets. He’s sure he’ll be punished for that later. Every step hurts already, from the shifting of his shirt on his back, to the falls of his wounded feet on the floor.

It’s darker upstairs, but he follows her down the hallway nonetheless. There’s something eerily quiet about this house. He imagines there are people behind some of these heavy oak doors, unknown strangers, watching him, perhaps waiting for their turn. 

If only he could stop thinking. The worst part about being a slave is that part of him is still a man. He can never seem to turn his damn brain off, no matter how much and for how long he tries. 

His mistress speaks in that same gentle voice. “My name is Cosette de Pontmercy.”

Something stirs in the back of his mind. The name is so familiar. But it can’t be. He can’t go on thinking of his old life. The only part of before that’s safe to think about is Enjolras.

“I know you must be very frightened, but it’s all right. I want to apologize for the way we had to bring you here. He never would have given you up if he’d known the truth, so we had to do it this way. But we’re friends. You’re safe now.”

He lets the words wash over him like so much soothing nonsense. He’s a failure in many ways, but he’s become very good at ignoring their lies. She doesn’t ask him any questions, so there’s no need for him to speak. 

“And I think there’s someone who’s pretty eager to see you.” 

So he hasn’t been bought just for her use. That makes sense. He wonders who will be behind the door. Another woman, this one deformed? A man, large and brutal? A whole crowd of people, waiting to use or hurt him? Once again, he curses his own mind. It’s not doing him any favors. He has no control over what’s going to happen to him and what isn’t. He might as well stop speculating. But his brain has never been a friend of his, even beforehand. He’s always been consumed by unnecessary worries and fits of panic. Now, of course, he really has something to panic about. 

The woman—Cosette—stops them in front of a door at the end of the hallway. She reaches forward, and says, “I think I’ll give the two of you some space,” and then she steps back, letting the door swing open. 

There is a small bedroom, neatly appointed with a large four-poster bed. A candle burns on the bedside table. The sheets are disheveled, a cup of milk forgotten atop the dresser. 

And standing there, in the middle of it all, is Enjolras. 

He closes his eyes and opens them again. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s hallucinated in a fit of despair. But no, there he still is.

Enjolras looks as beautiful as ever. His golden hair flows free down his back, untangled now. He’s no longer stained with dirt, and the bruise over his eye is healing. He wears a white nightdress, clean and crisp, and he’s smiling a little, right at Grantaire. 

Grantaire opens his mouth. He means to ask how this could have happened. He means to beg for Enjolras to run, run, while there’s still hope. He means to offer himself up to the woman, to everyone, to distract them so Enjolras can get free. 

Instead, what comes out is a desperate, wordless scream. 

He hadn’t screamed during his punishment. Not when he was beaten with the belt, or the cane, or the strap. Not when Master brought in men from the docks, sometimes two and three and four at a time, and let them fuck him for a few coins apiece until he had earned back the money Enjolras cost. Not even when he was burned, though that hurt more than even his vivid imagination could have prefigured. He’d wept, eventually, he’d begged, but he hadn’t screamed. 

No amount of pain could be as horrible as seeing Enjolras standing here, in front of him, a slave again. He’d endured that punishment, which felt like it would never end, because he believed that it was for Enjolras. He believed that Enjolras would get to be free because of it. And it was all worthless, like Grantaire himself. 

Enjolras is saying something. Grantaire tries to listen. It might be important, but it’s hard over the rushing panic in his heart. 

“Shh, shh. It’s all right, R. You’re safe now.”

Grantaire tries to shake his head, though the action makes him dizzy. They’ll never be safe, not as long as they’re slaves. What have they done to Enjolras, to convince him of that so quickly? To break him after all his years of resistance?

“Listen to me,” Enjolras says, his voice firm now, and something in Grantaire snaps back into place. A tiny piece of the world begins to make sense again. Enjolras is in command. At least something is as it should be. “Do you know where we are?”

“My new mistress’ house.”

He sighs. “But they didn’t tell you who had bought you?”

“No.”

“Grantaire, this is Marius’ house.”

Grantaire blinks at Enjolras, confused. His thoughts are slow now, his head spinning. 

“Marius de Pontmercy. Our friend. That was his wife, Cosette. Her friend Éponine and her father Valjean came to buy you, so that Master wouldn’t suspect anything. We’re safe, R. We’re free.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says. He understands the words, but he can’t make it make sense in his mind.

“You didn’t expect to see me again,” Enjolras says, his voice strained.

“Of course not. I thought I had been bought again. You were supposed to be free form all of this.”

“No, I mean…” Enjolras steps forward, closing some of the distance between them, though as always he’s careful not to touch Grantaire. He gestures towards the bed. “Sit.”

Grantaire shakes his head. “I don’t want to get it all dirty. I’m filthy.”

“And you look like you’re about to faint. Go on, please.”

He does, wincing as the open lacerations on his ass make contact with the mattress. Enjolras sits delicately next to him. 

“You thought I’d leave you,” Enjolras says, and his voice breaks. “You thought I’d leave you there, with that monster, being tortured so that I could be free. Why?”


	7. In Which There is a Misunderstanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: mention of rape
> 
> Sorry this one is a bit short!

Enjolras regrets the hasty words as soon as he’s spoken them. He sees Grantaire flinch back, cowering away from him, from being not quite close enough to touch to practically pressing against the other side of the bed, and he could curse himself. He’s pushed too much, too far, and far too quickly. He’s hurt Grantaire again, when he would give anything to keep him safe, to make things even the tiniest bit easier for him. 

God, the poor man looks as though he’s walked here directly from hell. Enjolras has been through an awful lot, and seen Grantaire go through even more, but he has never, not once in their five years of shared suffering, seen Grantaire look as brutalized and miserable as he looks now. 

“I’m sorry,” Enolras says at once. The question had come out of his mouth without him thinking it through, but that’s no excuse. 

Grantaire doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t. He’s exhausted and traumatized and chilled to the bone. And here Enjolras, the one person who has any understanding of what he’s been through, is interrogating him, not helping him at all. 

Enjolras tries again to soothe him. It’s always seemed, in the past, like his words could make Grantaire a little happier, cheap thanks though they were for all Grantaire did for him. “Forget I said anything, ‘Aire. We don’t have to talk about it now. Or ever, if you don’t want to. All right?”

Grantaire nods, barely, almost imperceptibly, but it’s something, at least. Enjolras is a stubborn man and always has been, but even he knows he’ll have to take what he can get, especially when Grantaire is so visibly upset. In his own quiet, constant way, Grantaire can be more determined than Enjolras ever was. 

Gentle, Enjolras reminds himself. It’s more important to be soft than to get an answer. The worst thing he could do would be to frighten Grantaire any more. “Will you tell me what I can do to help you feel better? A bath, something to eat, just help you get to bed?”

Grantaire shrugs a little bit. He still isn’t looking at Enjolras. He often doesn’t, on the worst days. He tends to hide his face, as though Enjolras will forget he’s there if he’s not looking right at him. Enjolras has learned, over time, that the best thing to do in such situations is to keep pushing, but carefully, carefully, always ready to let up if he realizes he’s gone too far. 

“Would you be willing to let Joly have a look at you? I know you’ve been—“ the word punished sticks in his throat. He has to stop thinking that way now that they’re free. Master had no right to torture them like that. That’s what it was. Not punishment, not his right. It was torture, plain and simple. “I know you’ve been hurt,” he finishes lamely. “You must be in pain.” He pauses there, to see if Grantaire will confirm or deny it. 

“A bit,” Grantaire says, his voice cracking. 

That’s the only hint Enjolras is likely to get as to how bad it really is. Grantaire will never complain in words, but this is a clear sign that something is amiss. Usually, he just denies feeling any pain at all, as if that could make Enjolras’ guilt better. “Joly’s a physician. He looked me over, gave me some good advice. Would you let him do the same for you?”

Grantaire doesn’t react, but he answers, in a low, flat monotone. Enjolras has heard that tone of voice before, so many times. It’s the way Grantaire speaks to his masters, the way he tries to be good even when it’s hard, even when he’s in agony. “If you want me to.”

That’s not the kind of answer Enjolras wanted to hear. He half-expected it. He’s had plenty of time to think over the last few years, and particularly about Grantaire, about what strange events brought them together in such horrible circumstances. He’s had a lot of realizations about himself, about the way he treated Grantaire before. He’s had plenty of regret, too. But that did neither of them any good. It just left him with an absolute certainty that if he ever got the chance to make it up to Grantaire, if they were ever free again, he would. “It’s not about what I want, ‘Aire. Surely you know that.”

Silence in response again. Clearly Enjolras has just made it worse. Then, suddenly, “Wait. Are you all right?” This tone is entirely different. This is Grantaire sounding as sure of himself, as normal, as he ever did. 

“I’m fine.”

“Because you said Joly had to look you over. What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing, ‘Aire. But he had to make sure that was the case, and I’d like to know the same about you—that you’re going to be all right. Physically, I mean.”

“You made it here okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

Grantaire falls silent again after that. Enjolras tries to be patient, waiting for an answer. It isn’t easy, but patience is one of many previously unknown virtues he has had to cultivate over the last few years. Finally, Grantaire speaks. “I’ll let Joly look at me. As long as you leave while he does.”

Those words sting Enjolras, though he knows that they shouldn’t. Grantaire has a right to his privacy, after everything he’s been through. He also has a right not to wish to be around Enjolras. 

He’s never shown any sign, in all these years, that he resents Enjolras for what he’s been through, but it only makes sense that he would. He never would have been captured were it not for Enjolras. And so many of the humiliations and tortures he’s faced over these years have been for Enjolras’ sake. Enjolras should, perhaps, have expected Grantaire to resent him know that they’re free. Somehow, he didn’t. 

He sits there for a moment, just enjoying the fact that Grantaire is next to him and alive. He knows that Grantaire might not be as ecstatic as he is about their reunion, but he has come to truly love this man who has given up so much for him, who has been the light in the darkness for these long years. 

If that is a one-sided feeling, well, he can accept that. For so long, Grantaire was devoted to him with nothing in return. Enjolras will try to act as selflessly as he did. If Grantaire can no longer think of Enjolras without a shudder, if he has rightly come to blame him for all of this, Enjolras will do what he can to bear it without complaint. He will do what he can to pay Grantaire back, bit by bit, for all the sacrifices he’s made. 

“I’ll go get Joly,” he says, when he feels he’s convinced himself that he can bear the separation. 

Grantaire gives him another small nod. Enjolras stands to leave the room, ignoring the wave of dizziness that hits him as he gets to his feet. He’s used to that now, anyway. It’s been plaguing him for a few months. It didn’t stop him from obeying orders when there was a threat attached. He sees no reason why it should prevent him from helping Grantaire now. 

Enjolras makes his way out of the room. As he closes the door, he lets himself sneak one last look at Grantaire. The other man is sitting on the bed, wearing rags that barely cover his nakedness. He’s barefoot, his feet streaked with blood. Every inch of him Enjolras can see is bruised, bloodied, scarred, and filthy.

This is your fault, Enjolras reminds himself savagely. He’s never been known for his gentleness. He won’t begin by having mercy on himself when he deserves none. 

Grantaire would have slept through all of the fighting had Enjolras not woken him. Or he would have never been on that damned barricade in the first place, had Enjolras not been so willing to sacrifice the lives of good men who followed him blindly on a doomed quest for a bright future he’ll never have. He’d be happy, healthy, whole. Maybe he would be a celebrated artist by now. Maybe he’d be married—he’d be a good father, Enjolras thinks. Maybe he would have drunk himself into an early grave, but at least he would have had the choice to do so. 

Enjolras might as well have hurt Grantaire with his own hands, he thinks, sick at his stomach at the very thought. It’s true, though, and he shouldn’t shy away from it. 

He goes to fetch Joly. The doctor is waiting in his room, just down the hall. “Grantaire agreed to see you,” Enjolras says. 

“And how are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

Joly sighs. “Of course.”

“What does that mean?”

“I just wish you would take more care of your health, Enjolras. You shouldn’t be out of bed at all, much less pacing the halls as you’ve been doing all evening. You won’t be able to help Grantaire if you make yourself sick.”

That’s perhaps the most convincing argument Joly could have mobilized, but Enjolras knows when he’s being manipulated. “Will you just go see him, please? You can check up on me to your heart’s content afterwards.”

“All right. If you promise to sit while I examine him.”

“Sure. I’ll have to do it elsewhere, though. He would…” Enjolras is careful to keep the hurt out of his voice. He doesn’t want to answer any questions on that score from Joly. For five years, he and Grantaire have been together for every moment. They’ve shared blankets when they had any, been naked in front of each other, slept with the other keeping watch. It hurts that those days might be over, terrible as they were—that those intimacies were borne out of necessity and nothing more. Now that Grantaire has his free choice, he doesn’t want Enjolras near. 

Of course that hurts, but Enjolras shouldn’t let it. Again, sharply, he reminds himself that Grantaire is safe and free now, and that’s all that matters. He can’t keep getting distracted by what he wants. The only thing he should want is to help Grantaire back to happiness, however long that might take. 

“He would rather be examined privately,” Enjolras manages to say quite matter of factly. He’s proud of himself for the calm tone in his own voice. It’s faked, of course, but it’s the best he can do under the circumstances. 

“Really? I would have thought…” Joly at least has the good sense to leave it there. “All right. Why don’t you sit right here and try to get some rest? I’m going to go have a look at Grantaire, make sure he’s okay.”

Enjolras does as he’s told. He sits on the chaise in Joly’s room. He tries not to look at the bed, its rumpled sheets, tries not to think about what happens there. It’s ridiculous that he’s so frightened of sex. They hardly ever raped him, all things considered. He was just the carrot and the stick, just the tool that was used to break Grantaire. 

And the first thing Grantaire saw when he was free was Enjolras, Enjolras demanding answers of him, Enjolras wanting more things that Grantaire can’t give. 

The thought makes him sick—quite literally. He’s still panicking over how to clean up the mess when Joly comes back into the room. 

“What happened, Enjolras?”

“I—“ He doesn’t know what to say. “I just… I think I just panicked. I’m sorry.” He waits for a blow, but none comes. 

“About Grantaire?”

Enjolras nods ever so slightly. 

“He’s all right. I mean, he’s not well, obviously. But he’ll heal, given rest, given time.” Joly hesitates. “I think you should go back in there, see him.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Enjolras says quietly. “I think he needs some space.”

“Is that what he said?”

“Yeah.”

Joly sighs. “All right. Why don’t you rest for now, and we’ll see if he can get some sleep. Things might seem brighter in the morning.”

Enjolras doesn’t find that likely, but he has also learned not to argue. He might be wiser now than he ever was before. “Will you just tell me—“

“I’m acting as his doctor. I can’t just tell you anything you want to know, Enjolras. I’m sorry.” Joly continues, his voice a little softer. “I know you ask only out of concern for him. If I could, I would tell you. But there’s nothing life-threatening, that I can promise you. Everything else, Grantaire will have to tell you in his own time.”

If that time ever comes, Enjolras promises silently that he won’t take it for granted.


	8. In Which the Physician Cares for his Patient

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW in this one for some mention of food issues and passing suicidal thoughts.

Grantaire is numb. Emotionally, that is. Physically, he's in a rather splendid quantity of pain, but he tries not to worry too much about that. The pain will fade, as so many others have in time, or it will become another permanent burden he carries with him. Either way, stoicism is the appropriate attitude to cultivate. He can't do a damn thing about it. He lets himself be helped into the bath by Joly, tries to clean himself off. The touch of warm water on his body makes the pain worse, several of his lash marks beginning to sting furiously, but it's worth it. He’s filthy all over and he knows it. The sheets will have to be cleaned at least, thrown away at worst, or actually, now that he’s looking down at the swirling greyness of the water he's immersed himself briefly in, probably burnt. 

 

He doesn’t ask what Enjolras said, or how he is doing. He doesn’t want to know the answer—whether he’s worried that Grantaire sent him away, or relieved to be quit of the sight of him. It doesn’t matter either way. He can’t be allowed to see Grantaire like this. 

 

Grantaire would rather no one did, honestly, but he understands that he probably wouldn’t be able to stay conscious in the hot water without help. Joly is the closest of his friends that hadn’t died at the barricade, and a doctor besides, so he’s the one who does it. He doesn’t look at Grantaire’s naked body, for which he is grateful, even though Joly has already seen the devastation there. 

 

Grantaire hasn’t let himself mourn for his lost friends, not yet. When he made his bargain, when he won Enjolras’ life, he knew he might be leaving them to die. He’s tried not to hold on to the hope of seeing them again. He’s trying, now, to be glad that any of them are here, and that they’re so ready to welcome him back. 

 

Joly tends to him with quiet, intense care. He washes Grantaire’s wounds for him, but steps away when Grantaire starts to tense up, unable to remember (even though he knows) whose hands those are on his back, on his skin. He just stands in the corner, half-watching with averted eyes, making sure Grantaire doesn’t slip or drown in the bath. 

 

Of course, the secret is that he wouldn’t much mind if that happened. He’s served his purpose now. He’s saved Enjolras’ life, brought him back to freedom and safety. What happens to Grantaire now is of less than no concern. He could slip under the warm water and let the air rush from his lungs and be at peace. It’s a tempting thought. The end of pain, of suffering. He’s had it before, many times, during his dissipate years between leaving his apprenticeship under Legros and meeting Enjolras, and even a few times when he was a hanger-on of Les Amis, when he could no longer bear his own uselessness. 

 

He’s had no choice but to stay alive for the last five years. Someone has to protect Enjolras. 

 

But now that job is done, and Grantaire can yield up his charge to other, worthier protectors, to those who deserve to take care of Enjolras, those who won’t let him down as Grantaire so often has. 

 

He’s considering the various advantages of this decision when a great wave of weariness hits him. The realization that he can rest now, that he can permit himself to sleep, is powerful enough that he abandons the tempting notion of another kind of escape. For now, he will rest in a bed, and in the morning he’ll speak to Enjolras. 

 

Joly helps him dry himself off. He dresses, not in clothes, but in a long, simple nightdress. He would like to have the dignity of a proper outfit again. Grantaire has never cared much about what he wore, since there’s little any sartorial decision can do to distract from the major problem of his face, but after five years of being naked or clothed in rags, it would be nice to wear a shirt and trousers. Unfortunately, the nightdress is the easiest thing to afford him some modesty without pressing too painfully on his many wounds, so he accepts it without complaint. 

 

Once he’s clothed, he accepts Joly’s arm. The two of them slowly make their way back towards the vacated bedroom. Someone has already changed the filthy sheets Grantaire had sat on, and there’s a glass of cool water sitting on the bedside table. 

 

“Drink _slowly,_ ” Joly urges. “If you can keep this down, I’ll bring you some broth.”

 

“Exciting,” Grantaire quips, and it’s a relief to see a smile on Joly’s face. He would prefer not to bring utter misery everywhere he goes. Maybe he can at least be good for a laugh every now and then, again. He was before. 

 

“I know it’s not what you’d probably most like after years of starving, but if you eat too much too quickly, best case scenario you will throw up. Worst case scenario, your heart will actually stop.”

 

That’s a way to go Grantaire hadn’t considered. Gorging himself to death. He fantasizes briefly about wheels of ripe cheese and loaves of crackling-fresh bread, and then nothingness. Morbidity and hedonism, his two great claims to fame. “Broth it is,” Grantaire says, having a sip of his lukewarm water. It’s better than he expected. He can feel the liquid sloshing around in his empty stomach, but also the rush of relief as some of the dryness in his throat is soothed. 

 

“You’re doing very well,” Joly soothes. “Now, do you want to tell me why you wanted Enjolras to go?”

 

Grantaire narrowly manages to avoid spitting his second mouthful of water all over the room in shock at the question. Joly’s been so cursedly careful with him all this while. He hadn’t expected him to come right out and _say_ something like that. 

 

Joly doesn’t push, just stands in the corner and watches while Grantaire struggles to find words. Eventually, he settles for telling the truth. 

 

“Well. You know what happened to me.”

 

“I have some idea,” Joly corrects. “I saw your injuries. I still don’t know exactly how they were caused, or why.”

 

“Punishment,” Grantaire says, flatly. “I helped Enjolras get away. I stole food and clothes for him, and then when Master was using me in his room, Enjolras ran. Master knew I must have helped, and I wouldn’t tell him where he’d gone. Of course I wouldn’t. But he didn’t like that, didn’t like that he still hadn’t broken me even though he had my obedience, and so I was punished.”

 

“I thought it might be something like that. And that’s why you didn’t want him to see?”

 

It’s most of the truth. The other reasons—his shame, his fear, his revulsion at his own twisted body—are too humiliating to mention. “Yes. He feels guilty enough about the whole thing. About running. Leaving me behind. I don’t want to give him anything else to worry about. Think of it as a selfish choice. He’s already asking me questions I can’t answer about why I did what I did. I don’t want any more of that. I just want to be left alone to heal.”

 

The thing he’s lying about, the thing he’s leaving out, is that that’s not all he wants. It never has been, never will be. He’ll always want more from Enjolras, always want what he can never have. But Joly doesn’t need to know that, since he seems satisfied enough with Grantaire’s incomplete answer. Besides, Grantaire can’t be entirely sure that none of what he’s said will get back to Enjolras. That, he can’t take any risks at all on. Grantaire has kept his secret from Enjolras for quite a few years, through quite a few dangers. He won’t allow it to slip out so readily. Things might seem safe now, but he knows how soon all of that would fall apart if he were to let his secret out.

 

Besides, he doesn’t want Enjolras to see him like this. It’s foolish, he knows. Enjolras has never seen him this badly hurt, but he’s watched plenty of horrible and humiliating things happen to Grantaire’s body. Grantaire isn’t even sure if he’s trying to spare Enjolras the discomfort, or himself the shame. 

 

Maybe, he admits, he’s just trying to hurt himself. He knows he doesn’t deserve Enjolras’ comfort. It would come from guilt, from obligation, not from…

 

Not from the thing he wants, the thing he has tried for so long now not to let himself dream of. 

 

“Grantaire?”

 

It’s Joly’s voice, calling his name softly.

 

“Grantaire, are you okay? What hurts?”

 

His stupid brain, but that’s not a good answer. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

 

“You looked upset.”

 

“Well, y’know. It’s been a long day.”

 

That gets another laugh, which is good. When people are laughing at him, they’re rarely about to hurt him. “I want to make sure I didn’t upset you. Enjolras was really concerned that you didn’t want him there, and he seemed unhappy. But I’m not going to push you or pressure you into doing anything you don’t want to do, okay? I just wanted to make sure that you know what’s going on with him, and why I asked. I can drop it now.”

 

“Thanks,” Grantaire says. 

 

“And I want to be sure…” Joly hesitates, and then clears his throat. “I know both of you were in a really, really bad situation for a long time. Are you—are you afraid of him? Did he do anything to hurt you, intentionally or otherwise? Because if that’s the case, we can get some more space between you. Or just if it would be more comfortable. Musichetta and I maintain our own apartment in another district, and you’d be welcome to stay with us. We still have B—we still have an extra bed.”

 

Grantaire may be quite out of it, but he’s always ready to leap to Enjolras’ defense. “He would never do anything to hurt me. _Never._ I’m not afraid of him, I’m afraid for him. I’m afraid of what he’ll think of—of me, now that we’re not…” He can’t finish the sentence. “It’s not that I don’t want him nearby. It’s just, I’m not ready for that. For what he’s been asking me for. To give him the answers he needs. I just need a little space, a little time.”

 

“Of course, ‘Aire.”

 

“Please,” Grantaire says, his voice breaking. He’s used to begging now. It’s how he’s gotten every moment of rest and every scrap of food for years now. But it still sticks in his throat. It still, strangely but undeniably, hurts. 

 

“Don’t worry. Drink your water.”

 

One of those commands is impossible, but the other he can handle. He lifts the glass to his lips and takes one long, smooth swallow. 

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

“Better and better,” Grantaire says, which is the truth.

 

“How’s the pain? On a scale of one to ten. Where one is no pain at all, and ten was during the, er, beating.”

 

“It’s about a four,” Grantaire assesses after a moment.

 

“That’s a good sign. It means you’re on track. I wish there were more I could do for the pain, but I don’t want to give you any morphine or even laudanum. I’m afraid your system is still too weak to handle it, and…”

 

And with Grantaire’s history of drinking, it’s probably best to steer him away from serious drugs. Grantaire can tell that’s what Joly is thinking, even as careful as he is not to say it. Grantaire understands, though. He’s even grateful for it. He remembers the shivering horror of the first few weeks of his captivity, the vomiting, the headaches, the constant certainty that monsters were coming out of the walls or ants crawling forth from his skin. He doesn’t want to go through that sort of withdrawal again, not like he did when he was forced to stop drinking. It’s one of his least pleasant memories, and for a man with Grantaire’s life story, that is really saying something. “I’d rather not, anyway. I can manage the pain.”

 

“I _can_ bring you a little whiskey, if that would help revive your spirits and if you can keep all the water down.”

 

“No, thank you.” If he had to survive his forced abstinence, he intends to take advantage of it now, not sink immediately back into his old ways. Besides, he can no longer identify quite what was so appealing about the feeling of being drunk. Half the time he just ended up fuzzy, miserable, and out of control, which he can manage well enough without the aid of any substances. 

 

“That’s a wise decision. Now, how is your stomach feeling?”

 

“Okay?” he hazards. “A little, it’s hard to describe, uh, sloshy? Like, I can feel the water moving around in there. It doesn’t feel good, but it doesn’t hurt or anything.”

 

Joly frowns slightly. “Well, that’s not ideal, I won’t lie to you. It indicates you’re pretty seriously malnourished.”

 

Grantaire had known that one already. At least it’s not _new_ terrible news. 

 

“But we’ll be able to get you back to health, don’t worry. It’ll be slow but we’ll make progress. And the more weight you put back on, the faster your body will be able to heal from your other injuries. It’s just going to be soup, soaked bread, water, and rest for you for quite some time. A boring prescription, I’m afraid, but before too long you should be feeling better.”

 

Grantaire isn’t even able to imagine what that would be like, to be better. He hasn’t allowed himself to think about what a life without pain would be like for so long. He’s just focused on one goal, one dream. Enjolras’ freedom. That’s done now, achieved, safe. Off his list of things to worry about. He should feel accomplished, he knows that. He should feel proud of himself. He should be letting himself celebrate, saying yes to the offered comfort, 

 

He doesn’t feel inclined to. The only thing he wants for himself is sleep. It’s not quite the permanent oblivion he knows better than to reach for, but if he’s able to fall asleep, if worries or insomnia don’t keep him awake, if no one rouses him to fuck him in the middle of the night, it will at least be a reprieve from everything else, short though it might be. 

 

“Does that sound okay, ‘Aire? Do we have a plan?”

 

“Yes,” Grantaire croaks, setting down the now-empty glass of water. “Thank you, Joly. For looking after me.”

 

“Of course. You’re my friend.”

 

Grantaire can’t find the words to reply to that. He hasn’t been anything in so long. Only a body to be fucked or hurt, only a thing. 

 

He knows he was a friend, once, and well-loved by a precious few. He wonders if he’ll be able to go back to that. He wonders if he’ll be able to feel the gentle warmth of feeling for them that he remembers, or if all of that has burned out in the last few desperate years of keeping Enjolras alive. 

 

“Thank you,” he manages.

 

“Of course. We’re going to get through this. You believe that, don’t you?”

 

“Yeah,” Grantaire says. He’s pretty sure it’s not convincing at all, but Joly doesn’t punish him for the lie. He just looks at Grantaire for a long moment before speaking. 

 

“Okay. Do you want to try some broth now?”

 

Grantaire shakes his head. “I just want to sleep. Please.” 

 

“Of course. You need your rest. I’m just down the hall if you need anything at all during the night, okay? If the pain gets unbearable, if you need something to help you sleep, if… if you just want a friend to talk to. _Anything._ ”

 

“I will,” Grantaire lies. But it must be convincing enough, because Joly goes, quietly shutting the door behind him. He leaves Grantaire to tuck himself into bed, burrowing his bruised body beneath the covers. He doesn’t blow the candle on his bedside table out, just watches the flame flicker and sputter and slowly die. 


	9. In Which Certain Feelings Are Expressed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! This fic will be going on hiatus for about five weeks, from now until July 10th. It's the end of the school year for me, and I really need to focus on the sixty pages of essay I need to write in the next month and not on fanfiction. After that I'll be travelling with no internet for a bit. I hope this will tide you over for a while!

“Do you think it would be okay for me to go see him?” Enjolras asks Marius the next morning. He’d intended to have a sleepless night, to toss and turn out of his deep concern for Grantaire. And he would have, too, but the exertion of running halfway across Paris to safety means that he actually couldn’t keep his eyes open. He’d slept deeply and for a long time. 

“Grantaire is still asleep.”

That’s a relief to hear. At least he’s getting the rest that he needs. Enjolras should be happier about it, in fact. It isn’t right for him to still be focusing on what he wants, which is for Grantaire to want him around. For Grantaire to forgive him. 

That’s absurd, anyway. Grantaire probably never will. Probably shouldn’t, since Enjolras has so completely contributed to the other man’s misery. He’d be well within his rights to hold it against Enjolras forever, or indeed to decide that he wants nothing to do with Enjolras ever again.

The thought makes Enjolras sad and a little sick, but he accepts it as a possibility. So many people have used Grantaire for their own selfish purposes. He won’t do the same thing. 

“When he wakes up, if he’s ready, I was thinking it might be time for us all to talk things over, make a plan.”

Enjolras nods once. “That’s a good idea.” A great idea, actually. He’ll be able to figure out what Grantaire needs and the best way to make sure he gets it. 

“I’m glad you’re okay. Well, not okay. Alive. I’m glad you’re alive,” Marius says, in the rambling way in which he says what one ought not to say, and Enjolras manages to smile at him. Almost sincerely, too.

“I’m glad too.” He hadn’t been at first. Dimly, he remembers being furious at Grantaire for saving him. He hadn’t wanted to outlive his cause, or his friends. His life wasn’t worth anything. It was a tool, and he’d planned to sacrifice it for the glory of the revolution. He hadn’t thought anyone else would be hurt (foolishly, he now realizes) but he also hadn’t expected to live even this long. He thought he’d perish on the barricades, leading a charge, that he would be a symbol for the people who would rise to fight for justice. 

He had been a fool. He wishes no one had ever followed him. He wishes they had all been as cynical as Grantaire, but without half the devotion. He can’t believe he ever used to despise Grantaire for mocking him. Mockery was more than his idiocy deserved. He wished he’d listened to Grantaire. Thanked him for his good sense in laughing at a stupid boy who thought he could change the world just because he believed it was the right thing to do. 

He wished he’d been grateful for Grantaire then, the way he is now. 

“Can I get you anything, Enjolras? Joly says you could probably have a little bread soaked in water if you’re up for it. Or maybe something to read?”

Enjolras can’t help the flinch that settles over his body at that. Luckily, the only person in the room is Marius. And luckily, Marius is, characteristically, clueless. He takes a moment to get himself under control before saying, calmly enough, “No, thank you. I’ll just wait.”

And wait he does, and take stock of the situation.

The best plan he can think of is to get strong enough to run again. These are his friends, that’s why he’d come to them for help, but if he knows anything now he knows that the only people he can really count on in the world are himself and Grantaire. And even if he could trust them to keep him safe, there’s no way he’ll trust them with something as important as Grantaire’s safety. 

They aren’t valuable to Master apart, but now they’re together again. Master could easily decide to come after them, to try to find out what it would take to break them of the rebelliousness that led them to run away. 

That’s a terrible thought, but Enjolras isn’t such a coward as to hide from what is most likely going to become reality. Master will come after them, reclaim them, and punish them terribly. He’s always hinted at having more power than they know about, having secret ways to get information. And he’s always told them, quite directly, that he knows more than he’s telling them about the best way to break someone, the best way to hurt and terrify. He’s saved his deepest, most secret tortures.

He’ll use those on them if he finds them. So the most important thing is to keep Grantaire out of his clutches and safe. There are two major ways to do that. One is to find Master and kill him. The other is to flee.

He won’t lie to himself—the idea of killing Master is a pretty tempting one. First of all, the man certainly deserves it. Enjolras has never had an issue with righteous violence, judiciously applied to the proper target. This would be the crowning glory for that sort of thing. And it would mean Grantaire would be safe from him forever. 

He really can’t pretend that isn’t tempting, but the fact remains that Master is much more likely to kill him than the other way around. Even if Enjolras is armed, even if he surprises him… well, Enjolras has come to realize that he’s not the fighter he wanted to think he was.

So the other route, the better one, is to leave Paris, maybe leave the country altogether. They can split up, if that’s what Grantaire wants. 

Or even, maybe, he can get Grantaire to leave, and Enjolras can stay behind. Yes, that might work. That way, maybe Master won’t be as likely to go after Grantaire. 

He’s still working through exactly how he’s going to convince Grantaire to go along with that plan when there’s another knock on the door. 

“Enjolras?”

This time, it’s a woman’s voice. “Come in,” he says, since he’s a person again now and had better act like one. That means politeness. He thinks he remembers how to do it.

The person who steps through the door is a pretty young blonde. Marius’ wife Cosette, he remembers, vaguely. “I was just checking on Grantaire, and he said he was ready to talk with you, if you’d like to speak with him.”

“Oh.” That’s unexpectedly good news. He’d thought Grantaire might not want anything to do with him again, and almost certainly wouldn’t so soon after his escape. Strangely, he doesn’t feel relieved. It’s more anxiety that’s blossoming in his stomach. 

Nonetheless, he lets Cosette lead him down the hall, back to where Grantaire is. Of the two of them, he’s the one far more able to move unaided, though the trip takes a lot out of him.

He’s surprised, when he enters, to find Grantaire sitting up and smiling at him, the same brightness in his eyes Enjolras remembers from before their captivity. 

“Good morning, Apollo.” 

“Good morning, ‘Aire.”

“Can I offer you something? I have, let’s see, tepid water, and bread soaked in milk.”

Enjolras laughs. It’s been so long since he’s heard Grantaire try to be funny. His sense of humor had gone slowly, but it had gone along with everything else in the end. “No, thank you. I will sit, though, if that’s okay?” He wants to make sure it is before doing so, especially because Grantaire is still in bed, and therefore vulnerable. Not that he’d often been taken to Master’s literal bed, but still. The implications are there.

“Please.”

Enjolras gingerly takes a seat at the foot of the bed, while Grantaire sits at the other end of it. He’s propped upright by several pillows, but he still seems dramatically better than he had been last night. Stronger, more present, even, possibly, happier. “How are you feeling?”

“For someone who was gang-raped, beaten half to death, and then walked barefoot across Paris in the middle of the night, better than I would have expected. As long as I don’t move or breathe or anything, nothing hurts particularly badly.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“None of that,” Grantaire admonishes. “You didn’t do this to me.”

“I might as well have.”

Grantaire blinks at him in what appears to be totally genuine shock. “Is that really what you think?”

“… Yes?”

“Wow. And I thought you were the smart one.”

That’s a little meaner than Enjolras thought Grantaire would ever be to him. “Sorry?”

“I mean, if you think about it for two seconds, Enjolras, that’s a pretty horrible thing to say. Would you ever do this to me unless someone forced you to?”

“No!” He’s hopefully proved that, at least, after all of Master’s experiments. 

“Would you ever want to?”

“Of course not.”

“So don’t say that you would, okay? Don’t try to make it your fault. It isn’t. You didn’t do this. You wouldn’t. I can trust you.”

Enjolras is no longer sure who Grantaire is trying to convince by the end of that sentence, but he gently replies, “Of course you can, ‘Aire. I’m sorry, it was a careless way of trying to say—I feel terrible that that happened to you. I feel responsible, and for good reason, because you did it for my sake. But I would never, ever do something like that to you!”

“I do know that. And hey, it was worth it. We’re free now.”

“We both are,” Enjolras agrees.

“So, you know. Where do we go from here?”

Enjolras is about to open his mouth and share all his half-formed plans about fleeing the country, about getting to safety, but he can’t bring himself to. “You need rest, and peace, and to get your strength back up. We both do.”

“And after that?” Grantaire asks, and his hands tremble ever-so-slightly. It’s one of Grantaire’s few tells. Usually, he’s an exceptionally good liar, but Enjolras can read him extremely well now. He has plenty of practice. 

That slight tremor means Grantaire is afraid of something. Not a little afraid, like he would be of a beating, but genuinely terrified. He’d seen Grantaire do that just before they were branded, for instance. “Will you tell me what you want to have happen?”

Grantaire doesn’t make eye contact with him, but he does answer the question in a slow, but clearly honest, monotone. “I would like it maybe if we could stay together. In the same house or something. I don’t know if you’ll still want me around, but it’s what I would want, if it’s okay with you.”

All thought that sending Grantaire abroad might be the safest thing for him disappears. This is so different from the Grantaire of last night, pushing Enjolras away, and it seems obvious now that was only because Grantaire felt he had to. Enjolras still isn’t quite sure why it’s happening, but at least he recognizes that it is. That, at least, is progress. 

Now all that remains is to gather his thoughts. He can’t say anything stupid like ‘of course I want you around’ or ‘whatever you want.’ There’s no of course, not for Grantaire, and yet he has to be reassured that Enjolras also wants this. After a moment of struggling with the words, he settles on something.

“There’s nothing I want more than to be near you, Grantaire. I thought you knew by now how much I care for you, but if you need to hear it again, please understand that I do. The only good thing about the last five years has been having you by my side. Now there will be other good things too, but I hope that won’t have to mean I’ll lose you.”

Grantaire shakes his head slightly, then winces as though it’s giving him a worse headache. “You just think that because you haven’t had anyone else around. Now that we’re back with our friends, you won’t want me close to you like that. I understand.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, his voice carefully gentle. “Listen to me, please. I understand why you’re worried about that. I wasn’t very kind to you before our captivity. I didn’t value you in the way you deserved. And after all we’ve been through, all you’ve been through, I understand that it’s hard to have any confidence left. But do me the courtesy of not telling me what I think.”

“And what do you think?” Grantaire challenges, a slight gleam in his eye, like they’re arguing back in the Musain. “When we were in his house, when he had hurt me, you’d hold me close, you’d say…” 

Grantaire doesn’t repeat it. He never has, But that’s never stopped Enjolras from saying it. “I love you. I loved you then. I love you now. Not because you were the only one there with me. Not because of all you did to protect me. Because of you.”

Grantaire just stares at him, eyes wet with unshed tears. He opens his mouth, like he’s about to say something. What comes out is suddenly hazy, slurred. “I’m sorry, Apollo. I don’t feel so good.”

Enjolras stands as quickly as he can, calls for Joly at the top of his lungs, but Grantaire already seems to be slipping out of consciousness.


	10. In Which Two Siblings Talk About Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise!
> 
> i got my schoolwork done before i had to leave, so i had a bit of time to bang out this quick update. i'll be back on July 10th and hopefully have a more E/R focused chapter up before too long after that: this one is more plot-heavy.

Gavroche hears yelling coming from upstairs, but no one will let him into the room. Joly pushes past him with Marius and Jean flanking him on either side, rushing to help Grantaire back into bed. Gavroche catches a glimpse through the open door. Grantaire is on the floor, his eyes lazily blinking open. He doesn’t seem quite able to open them all the way. Enjolras is stalking back and forth in the corner, saying something (or, more accurately, shouting). 

From the other side of the house, there is a shriek as the Pontmercy children are stirred from their naps by the commotion. The baby starts crying, and Cosette rushes by, in a hurry to soothe it back to sleep. 

Jehan passes by, arm-in-arm with a trembling and pale Enjolras, speaking soothing words to him under his breath as he leads him out of the sickroom to one of the spare bedrooms. 

No one speaks to Gavroche at all, which doesn’t surprise him. There’s enough chaos that no one is likely to notice him. He just watches, and wonders.

There’s not much he can do, really. Not much that can help them, but maybe there’s something else even more important. Something no one but he, and maybe Éponine, are likely to think of. 

He waits until they can be by themselves. Everyone else is busily occupied with soothing some one or another. That leaves the two Thénardiers to retreat to their their favorite spot, the warm and well-stocked kitchen of the Pontmercy home. 

Gavroche sits on the countertop, eating cherries from out of one of Cosette’s fancy gilded platters and spitting their pits against the wall, while his sister fusses over a loaf of bread she’s been proofing on the countertop. She’s gotten really into baking, now that they have somewhere to live. He tries to tell her that the Pontmercys could just go to a bakery like everyone else in Paris does, but that doesn’t stop her. Well, she could have stranger quirks. He certainly does. 

The Pontmercys are nice and all, but Gavroche likes it best when it’s just him and his sister. Then he doesn’t have to do all that bullshit of trying to pretend like he’s well-bred and polite and say please and thank you and so on. He can spit all he wants, and he can eat whatever takes his fancy, and he can say exactly what is on his mind. In this case, there’s one question he can’t get out of his head, so he asks it. Maybe Éponine will be able to reassure him somehow. Or maybe they’ll just get to be on the same page about it. Whichever, it’s better than having it circling through his head again and again. 

“So how many more people are gonna get tortured with that gold we gave ‘em, do you think?” Gavroche asks. He tries to sound off-hand about it, even if that’s not how he’s feeling. Even if how he’s feeling is terrified, and guilty, and all torn up inside because it’s not what Enjolras would have wanted them to do, it’s not what they fought for, it’s not what their friends died for. 

Éponine flinches. He can tell she knew. Of course she knew, she’s smart, as smart as he is. She’s had to be, just as he has. It’s one of the things he likes about having a sister, though he went most of his life without knowing her. Most people—especially the Amis, bless them—need things explained to them real carefully. Not Éponine. She always knows what he means. And she may not like it any more than he does, the cold and nasty way this world is, but she understands it. “Don’t see the point in talking about it,” she says, shortly.

“Really? Why not? We should at least admit it, don’t you think? We picked our friend, well, my friend, over a bunch o’ people we don’t even know. Who knows how many?” He wants an answer, now. He wants her to take a guess, to count, to tell him how many souls he should be holding to his own account. How fast he should act. 

“I don’t feel good about it either.”

“I’m not saying ‘feel bad about it’, Ép. I’m saying, we ought to do something.”

“Something like what?”

“Something like lock that doctor fellow inside his house and set it on fire, for instance.” Now, Gavroche has never actually gotten as far as murdering anyone before, but it wouldn’t be his first crime, at least, and he finds it hard to imagine there could be a better way to start on the outright violence section of his budding criminal career than by taking this man, this monster, out before he can do to anyone else what he’s done to Enjolras and Grantaire. He sure deserves it.

Éponine doesn’t react the way he expects her to. She doesn’t say anything about how she forbids it, about how he’s too young to even think something so horrible, about how violence is never the answer. He supposes he should have given her more credit. She never does do things like that, though he always worries that she’ll act just like everyone else. Instead of scolding, she meets his eyes. “I’ve told Montparnasse already,” she says. “About the house. The address. The money.”

She doesn’t have to say anything more. It’s not as satisfying, maybe, as it would have been to let the whole thing on fire, to watch it burn. To see the revenge happen.

But telling Montparnasse about that purse, well, the man is already as good as dead. Gavroche makes a note to watch him, to see when his new coat or pair of boots appears. That’ll be the sign, that the man is dead, that there’s no need to fret over this any longer. 

“Smart,” Gavroche says, and he means it. It’s not as fun, no, but it’s much more practical. The man will die and no one will be able to connect his death to them. If Montparnasse is publicly suspected, so much the better. Neither the police nor anyone else will wish to tangle with Patron-Minette, so he’ll get away with it, as though it never happened. 

“I thought so.”

“Will he send you word, when he’s done it?”

“No, I don’t think so. I didn’t ask him to.”

Of course not. Éponine is too clever to put herself in the position of owing favors to someone like Montparnasse. She wouldn’t ask him to do her dirty work for her—just imply that there’s dirty work to be done, and that a really clever fellow could find himself glad if he did it, and that she, Éponine, would do it herself were she not such a delicate little girl. 

It amazes him that people like Montparnasse, who are not, technically speaking, stupid, and who have known her for years, still fall for it, when it is so entirely and obviously an act. She’s good at what she does, Éponine is. It still surprises even him at times. 

“Well done,” he acknowledges.

“Thank you.”

They sit in silence for a few moments, Gavroche admiring the red splotches his cherry pits have made against the wall. He expects Cosette will let out an excitingly loud shriek when she sees it. That’s always fun. Baiting her is so easy you’d think it wouldn’t be satisfying, but it is. 

“So,” Éponine says, pausing to dust off her hands on her apron. “I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

Gavroche does not answer anything, because that would be a stupid thing to do. He loves his sister and he trusts her, but everything has its limits, even his relationship with Éponine. He’ll always hold something back. “Yes,” he says instead. 

“I need some information. To help them.”

“Okay.”

“I never knew either of them before. Enjolras I at least saw from time to time, while I was following Marius about. But I didn’t ever get the pleasure of meeting Grantaire. It seems like he’s taken the brunt of things, then and maybe now. If I’m going to be hanging around the house, and so are the two of them, I would like to know how I can help best, if I can. You knew them.”

“Yes,” Gavroche says. “Enjolras slightly, Grantaire well.”

“What was he like, before?”

Gavroche hesitates. “You would have liked him,” he starts. The memories come back all at once. The first thing he recalls is Grantaire where he usually was, in the very back of the Musain, tolerating Gavroche, then only a child of eight or nine, sitting at his table. Grantaire always sat at the same table. He didn’t understand why, then, clever as he was, but he knows now. It was one where he couldn’t be seen, but he could see. Specifically, he could see Enjolras. He could watch him, that rapt expression of focus across his face that he only got when Enjolras was in the room. “He was always kind to me.”

“I do like that,” Éponine agrees with a smile. 

“Besides, you had something in common.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Loving someone you couldn’t have.” Gavroche always feels honored, that his sister is willing to talk to him about her feelings for Marius. He knows she’s a little ashamed of it, especially now that it’s in the past. He knows how hard it’s been for her to let it go, living here in his house, with his two children and beautiful wife. She rarely brings it up, and no one but Gavroche knows of it. 

“Enjolras?” she asks. 

“Yes.” It occurs to him to wonder how she’ll react. He hasn’t told anyone else about Enjolras and Grantaire’s relationship, whatever it might be. It never bothered Gavroche, since he saw the two of them in whatever extended state of flirtation they engaged in long before he was old enough to recognize that some people thought men ought not to be involved with each other. He’s found, though, that such beliefs don’t often correspond quite with those that you’d expect. 

“I figured that. From the way Enjolras reacted.”

“That’s the funny thing. He wasn’t interested, not then. Grantaire watched him, yeah, but it was all from afar. Now the two of them are, well, whatever they are now.”

“They’ve been through a lot together. It makes a kind of sense.”

“I guess so.”

“And Enjolras?”

Gavroche shrugs. “Like I said, I don’t know him very well. Didn’t. He seemed different, then. He was the leader of the group, before the rebellion actually happened. Or rather, didn’t happen. He was clever. Charismatic. Passionate. People followed him in part because of flashy words and all that, yes, but also because he really believed in what he was saying. He really believed there could be a better world. I did too.” He’s aware of how absurd that sounds. Cynical and world-weary and all of fourteen years old. 

Still, it’s the truth. He was younger then, a child instead of a young man, and he was something of an idiot. He planned to climb the barricade and bring about a better world with his friends, his friends who took him as seriously as anyone could. 

Some of them died, and his childhood died with them. He has a second life now, a better life. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t regret it. 

“It would have taken something terrible to break him of that,” Éponine says. “A real belief like that. It’s something you don’t see every day.”

“No,” Gavroche agrees. “It’s not.”

“I’m glad I spoke to ‘Parnasse.”

“Me too.”

The two of them sit in silence for a moment, not quite looking at each other, neither sure what to say. 

It’s a bad world, Gavroche thinks. He’s always known that, ever since he was a baby, before the barricades, even. You can’t grow up with the Thénardiers as parents and not recognize that the world is a rotten place, if not to the core than at least all over the surface.

He used to think it could be better. He was ready to fight, die if necessary, to make it better. But the fact is that there’s not much he can do, not much any one person or group of people can do, for the world.

For his friends, though, for Enjolras and Grantaire, he can do something. That’ll have to be enough.

“I don’t know for sure what either of them will need,” Gavroche says, finally. “I’ve never seen anything like this, and I’ve seen some things. This is new.”

Éponine nods her head slightly in agreement.

“I think they are gonna need people to listen to them, though. People to treat ‘em like they’re human beings, still. I mean, there’s Joly fussing himself to death over the pair of them, and Cosette who treats everyone like they’re made of porcelain, and Jean will probably keep having to go into the other room to break something, and Marius… As Gavroche begins listing them off, he flinches a bit. He loves his friends, sure, but they’re not necessarily the crew he would choose to deal with a problem of this magnitude. They’re good people, kind people, loving people, but they also really like to be in each other’s business more than they should and don’t always know when to leave well enough alone. And being left alone may be the thing Enjolras and Grantaire are going to need the most. “I expect Grantaire, especially, isn’t going to be jumping at the chance to make new friends. He’ll want to stick close by Enjolras, even if he’s afraid to admit it.”

“At least they have each other,” Éponine says. “That’s something.”

“Do you think it was a comfort?” Gavroche asks, not sure he wants the answer. “I mean, I’m no slavekeeping maniac, but even I can come up with a lot more ways to hurt someone who has an attachment than someone who is by themselves.”

“It’s still better,” Éponine says. “Than being all alone.”

And he can’t argue with that.


	11. In Which Our Hero Begins to Develop Something Resembling Self-Esteem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's so good to be back!

Grantaire wakes up slowly, seeing the room come into focus before he realizes it's actually real, that he's actually seeing it. He's been sleeping in a bed and, aside from the usual twinges of old pain, nothing hurts much. There’s no one unfamiliar in the room, no cold concrete floor, no elements for tormenting him. The curtains are open, and cool fresh air pours in. He remembers what’s happened, that’s not the problem. He knows that they’ve been, as it were, saved, that he’s no longer a slave. He knows that they’re at Marius and Cosette’s house, and that no one here would willingly hurt him. 

He knows all that. It’s just hard to believe it. His stomach turns instinctively at the comfort of the bed, at the warmth, at the safety. He can’t help but expect, subconsciously, that pain must be coming as an immediate result of the fact that right now he isn’t experiencing any.

But there’s something else that absorbs him at once, something that is more significant than any pain, past, present, and future. 

More importantly, Enjolras is leaning over him, and although he's frowning in the particular way that signifies deep unhappiness, he is safe and no one is trying to hurt him.

Grantaire can’t believe in his own safety, but he can see Enjolras’, and that, that is what matters. 

Grantaire smiles and lets his eyes slip shut. He hopes he won't wake up again. He's done it. He's gotten Enjolras free, and that's the only thing that matters, the only thing that could. Sleeping was good, nothing hurt then. Maybe he'll be able to slip back to sleep, to peace and nothingness, knowing that he's protected Enjolras, that he's gotten him to safety. 

“Grantaire? Are you awake?” Enjolras’ voice is gentle and warm, filled with concern. 

Well, shit. It was a pleasant fantasy while it lasted, at least. The laughable notion that he could be good for anything, that he could have peace. That there could be an end to his suffering. 

“Yes.” He tries to sit up, to speak to Enjolras normally, but Enjolras stills him with a look and a gesture. Grantaire freezes before Enjolras’ hand can touch him. He doesn’t deserve that. 

“Don't get up. Joly says you might have taken a bad hit to your head, falling like that while you were already losing consciousness. You probably just fainted from malnourishment, but we can't be sure. You need to stay in bed until you're better, all right?”

No, not all right at all. He needs to be able to get up and move, needs to make a plan for how he's going to protect Enjolras in the inevitable event that Master comes looking for him. But with Enjolras staring down at him, so tender and so hopeful, it's hard to remember the important fact that Grantaire is garbage and the only good thing he's ever done in his life is suffer in Enjolras’ stead and most of the time he couldn't even do that properly. It is too easy to believe in Enjolras, that's the problem and it always has been, even when he says ridiculous things like that Grantaire is good enough and that Enjolras loves him. 

“Joly is going to bring you some broth soon. In the meantime, is it okay if I stay with you?” 

Grantaire nods his head slightly, which Enjolras is smart enough to see for the only recognition he's likely to get. 

“Thank you, R. Is it all right for me to sit in the edge of the bed? I would give you more space, but I'm meant to be on bed rest myself.”

The selfish part of Grantaire, which is to say, the marked majority of his withered soul, wants to say that he has no wish for space, that Enjolras is never near him near enough, that Enjolras could climb within Grantaire’s skin and Grantaire would still want more things he doesn’t deserve. But he doesn't say that, just nods again. It's important to keep Enjolras at a distance. Grantaire won't hurt him by pushing him away, not while he's still so vulnerable after his ordeal, but he also won't encourage unnecessary intimacies, or anything else that might make Enjolras more likely to stay near him. Grantaire isn't a good person, isn't selfless and pure the way Enjolras is, but he isn't that evil, to wish Enjolras forced to stick by him for no reason except his own selfishness. Of course he wants Enjolras, but he wants Enjolras to be himself.

And when Enjolras was himself, he hated Grantaire. No, not hated-despised and disdained. 

Grantaire loves him, so of course it will hurt when Enjolras goes back to hating him, but Grantaire loves him, so he'll do whatever he can to make sure he does. 

He realizes suddenly that Enjolras is still looking at him, expecting an answer. He nods slightly, and Enjolras sits, not quite close enough to touch him. That's good. They used to huddle together for warmth or simple comfort, but that's done now. Enjolras shouldn't touch him, shouldn't let himself be contaminated. The more he pulls away, the better. Enjolras has to stop relying on him, and Grantaire has to stop letting himself indulge like this, in something he can't have. The closer Enjolras comes, the harder the inevitable will be, when he has to get used to Enjolras’ absence. 

He reminds himself, harshly, that every moment he and Enjolras have spent together was only possible because they were captives. Enjoying them is hardly better than hurting Enjolras himself. It was one thing when he couldn't protect Enjolras from it, to at least take comfort in what followed, but now that he's safe Grantaire should do all he can to forget those intimacies. They were never real, but rather forced by circumstance. 

“Will you talk to me, R?” Enjolras asks, his voice so careful. “I want to know what Master did to you, if you'll tell me. But if you don't want to, that's okay. It's just that you've been so quiet ever since we got out. I want- not to make it up to you, I'm not sure that isn't possible, but to do anything for you that I can. That'll be easier, the more I know.”

“Do I have to?” Grantaire says, humiliated by the tremor in his own voice. 

“Of course not. R, you never have to do anything you don't want to, not ever again.”

Well, it's just obvious that that's not true, but he won't argue. 

“If you won't tell me what happened, tell me what I can do for you. Wha would make you feel better.”

He doesn't know what to ask for. What would make him feel better is a promise that Enjolras won't leave him, will stay right at his side, but he can't ask for that. It would be wrong. And besides, it would be easy for Enjolras to say that without meaning it. He’s sure he couldn’t bear it. “I think I just need rest,” he says. “And we need to make a plan.”

“A plan?”

“How we’re going to stop him coming after us. The others…” he hesitates. “The others think they’ve rescued us. They think we’re safe. But we’re not.” Of course they aren’t. As long as Master is alive, he’ll come after them. He doesn’t like to lose. He particularly doesn’t like to lose his property, and that’s what the two of them are. No, no, they’re free now. They don’t belong to Master. He never had a right to do that to them. Grantaire knows that. He does. But there’s still Master’s voice in his head, day and night, telling him, reminding him. 

“I thought at first…” Enjolras is hesitant. “I thought it might be best for us to get away from Paris. To leave. But I don’t know where we would go. I don’t have any money, and I don’t have any friends outside of the city. Do you?”

Grantaire shakes his head. “I have a sister that lives in Asnières-sur-Oise, but I won’t go there. It’s too close to the city, and too small a town. We’d be noticed.”

“I would never ask you to put your family in danger. We’ll think of something.”

Grantaire can think of a way that they could earn rather a lot of money very quickly, but he’s hesitant to suggest it. He imagines Enjolras won’t much like the idea. Well, he pretty much knows Enjolras won’t like the idea at all. Nonetheless, he can’t think of any other way they could start over, and it would only be for a little while. It would be faster, and more money, if Grantaire went up for auction again. He might not be worth as much as he was when Master bought him, but he could get something quickly, and he could endure another captivity if it meant Enjolras would be safe. Still, Enjolras will never agree, and perhaps it’s better that he remain free, so that he can help Enjolras as much as possible. 

“Perhaps if we changed our names and were able to work, a small sum would be enough to see us across the sea to England, and then we could start new lives.”

Grantaire never would have imagined, not in a million years, that once they were free Enjolras’ idea of a new life would also have him in it. He lets himself follow the fantasy for a moment. They could change their appearances—he could shave his head and grow out a moustache, Enjolras could go back to the long hair he had as a free man, they could dress simply. They could find a small house on the outskirts of a village somewhere. Grantaire speaks good English, though Enjolras speaks only French. He could translate for the both of them. Perhaps he could teach music or drawing, or work as a laborer.

“But neither of us is well enough yet—certainly you aren’t, R.”

Grantaire wants to protest, but since he’s under strict doctor’s orders not to so much as leave the bed, he has to admit that he probably wouldn’t survive a journey across the sea. Not yet, anyway.

He supposes he probably should start trying to focus on getting better. He’s not the only person who can protect Enjolras now, but he is the best one for the job in some ways. After all, he’s the only person who knows what he’s been through, without making Enjolras retell the whole painful story. He’s the only one who would be willing to die in an instant for Enjolras. Not for his cause, not for his ideals, but for him. 

And he deserves that. He deserves someone who will do anything for him, the way Grantaire will. 

So perhaps Grantaire’s life is worth living after all. Perhaps he shouldn’t be trying to push Enjolras away, but rather to keep him close, so that if it becomes necessary, he can once again sacrifice for Enjolras. 

That must just be his selfishness talking, but the thought is too appealing for him to push aside completely. He could be close to Enjolras, stay at his side. He could get better, get stronger, for Enjolras’ sake. And then he could help him.

He’s not good enough to be with Enjolras, but perhaps he could be good enough to help him as he tries to get his life back. 

“We’ll take some time,” Grantaire says, after a while. “We’ll stay here—maybe a week, maybe two. Once we’re both better, stronger, we’ll start making a plan for how we can leave. We should be safe for a little while.”

“We should share a room,” Enjolras suggests. “If you’re okay with that. That way, I’ll… I’ll always be able to know that you’re all right. Would that…”

He’s about to ask if it’s acceptable to Grantaire. He doesn’t even know what to say in response. He knows it’s selfish, but Enjolras is right. He does need to be able to keep an eye on Enjolras, to know that he’s all right. What if someone tried to hurt him while Grantaire wasn’t there?

“That would be okay,” Grantaire manages, and then Joly is there with his broth. Enjolras stays at his side, gently helping him with one sip at a time, steadying the cup so that his weak hands don’t spill.


	12. In Which A Man of Action Resolves Himself Upon A Difficult Course

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for this chapter: some really dark and unhealthy thoughts, including of violence

There’s something Grantaire isn’t telling him. He’s sure of that much. 

What he’s not quite certain of is whether or not it’s something that he needs to know.

Obviously he wants to know. He’s always been curious (some might say nosy), and that’s only gotten worse since he and Grantaire were in captivity together. He used to care much more about politics and much less about the personal lives of others, but all of that has changed since he was left with no one but Grantaire to talk to for years. Now he wants to know everything Grantaire thinks or feels, and he has trouble remembering why he cared so much about anything else. Grantaire is evidently the most important thing in the world, and Enjolras wants to know his thoughts, his fears, his secrets. 

But that doesn’t mean the right thing to do is to push him. Not when he’s been pulling away already.

Enjolras just wants to know so he can help. He’s very carefully examined his own motivations, and he’s pretty sure that he’s correct about them. It’s true that he does have some vested interest, some idle curiosity, in finding out what was done to Grantaire, but he’s thought about it a lot, and he’s quite positive that his motivation is simply to help Grantaire as much as possible. 

He suspects—he leans strongly towards the belief that—he’ll be able to do a better job helping Grantaire feel better if he finds out exactly what went on when Enjolras left him behind. Besides, he has a notion that Grantaire isn’t telling him out of something like shame… that he believes, however absurdly, that there is anything in the world that could change Enjolras’ love for him. 

So pushing him to talk about it could be good for him. It could make him see that there’s nothing at all that could have been done to him, nothing in the world, that would make Enjolras feel any differently towards him. 

On the other hand, Grantaire has had his rights violated in every way, again and again. Surely he has the right to privacy now, if he wants it. And Enjolras ought to respect that instead of pressuring him.

It’s a puzzle.

Grantaire is asleep again, thank goodness. He obviously needs the rest. He’s curled over onto his side, toward Enjolras. His hand lies open and exposed on the pillow next to his face, but the rest of him is tucked into a ball, like even in unconsciousness he’s desperate to protect himself. Enjolras wants nothing more in that moment than to twine his fingers up with Grantaire’s, but he knows better. He would never touch Grantaire without his consent, and certainly not in his sleep. He’s angry with himself for even wanting to—he shouldn’t be focused on urges of the flesh, no matter how seemingly innocent. The important thing is to make sure Grantaire is all right: physically, that he’s safe, that no one will hurt him again, and emotionally, that he’s starting to feel safe, too. Enjolras doesn’t expect it to happen all at once, but he wants some proof that they’re getting there, that progress is being made in some small way.

Perhaps that’s selfish, too.

Enjolras is going around in circles. He has to think of some way he can actually make progress, some way he can make things concretely better for Grantaire.

The obvious answer is physical safety. It may be that only time will make Grantaire start to feel better, but if he could do something about their ongoing proximity to Master—if Enjolras could figure out a way to get Master away from them, or get Grantaire further away from him, that would help at least somewhat.

The answer dawns on him suddenly. It’s so obvious he wonders how he never thought of it before. Then, of course, he knows exactly how he failed to realize it before. Master—that monster—had gotten so thoroughly into his head that this course of action would have been unthinkable.

The mere thought makes him frightened, but not as frightened as the way Grantaire slipped into unconsciousness out of nowhere earlier. Not as frightened as the thought that he might go on suffering without saying why, that he might live the rest of his life in fear of Master returning to take him away again. 

Not as frightened as the realization that if he ever did, Grantaire might to do something stupid, something drastic, for Enjolras’ sake. 

He might try to sacrifice himself again, and Enjolras can’t allow that. He can’t ever allow there to be a circumstance where that could happen. 

Perhaps one day he will be able to forgive himself of the last time. After all, he still can’t see a better way out of their captivity than to let Grantaire stay behind while he fled for help. And hindsight is perfect. This plan worked. They’re both free. Maybe one day that will be enough that he will no longer hate himself for having abandoned Grantaire to suffering and pain so that they could become free. 

But he could never forgive himself for doing it again, and certainly not for the selfish reasons that Grantaire no doubt would forgive him for. Grantaire would be happy to sacrifice himself to whatever unnamed tortures he has already endured just to spare Enjolras a little discomfort. He’s proved that over and over again. 

No, he has to make sure that’s never again an option. He has to protect Grantaire from that, whether Grantaire likes it or not. 

He wants to respect Grantaire’s choices, wants to give him as much autonomy as possible, but there are some things he has to determine for both of them—and one of those things is that while there is breath in Enjolras’ body, Grantaire won’t be making sacrifices for him anymore.

So he has to find a way to make sure that Master—that the doctor never comes anywhere near either of them again. He has to protect them both in order to protect Grantaire, and that means…

He’s frightened even to think it, as though the man will read his mind from miles away and punish him for it. 

It means that Master has to die. 

The solution is absolutely obvious now that it’s occurred to him. It’s the only way he’ll ever be able to really assure Grantaire that he will keep his promise. How is Grantaire supposed to trust that he’ll never be able to hurt them again when Enjolras can’t really be sure of that himself? No, the only way to fix this is to permanently remove the problem. 

And the problem is that if Master is alive, if he ever finds out that they’ve gotten away, that they’re together and safe and maybe even happy, he won’t rest until he’s ruined it. 

Enjolras can’t assure Grantaire’s safety, not as long as Master is a living threat.

So that means he has to do something about it.

A long time ago, Enjolras was the kind of person who could have contemplated killing a man with cold efficiency. He remembers executing Le Cabuc at the barricades. He was not pleased to do it, but it had to be done, and he did not shy away from it, either.

That feels like the action of a different man. Indeed, Enjolras has taken very little action of any kind at all for the past five years. He’s been permitted to do very, very little. Grantaire protected him from most of the tasks that were expected of the pair of slaves—that is, to provide release for the lusts or anger of their masters. When there were other tasks, chores, he did what he could, but that was rare. Mostly, especially after they were sold to the doctor, he served as a tool to control Grantaire, to ensure his perfect obedience. 

It’s hard to even begin, mentally, to approach the problem. He knows how to find Master’s house, at least. It’s likely to be unguarded, but it’s also possible that he’ll have hired or bought protectors since they saw him last. It’s even possible he’s abandoned that house, leaving it when his two captives did. 

Enjolras also doesn’t have any weapons, or any notion of how he would access them. It’s hard to imagine that Marius, who was distinctively feckless even when he was on the barricades with them, is stockpiling weapons in his mansion with his wife and babies. Enjolras could buy a gun, if he had any money, which he doesn’t. Besides, an unknown man covered in bruises trying to buy weaponry is sure to raise red flags, and legally Enjolras is a dead traitor. Fixing that status is fairly far down on his list of worries, but he doesn’t want to call too much attention to himself in the meantime. 

And when it comes down to it, Enjolras isn’t sure that he could actually pull the trigger, even if he could get a gun and find the man. 

It’s not that Master doesn’t deserve to die. Of course he does. It’s what he’s done to Grantaire, what he’s done to both of them. Enjolras knows he’s nothing more than a man. A particularly evil and wicked, but thoroughly human and thus mortal man. But it’s difficult to believe that, when he’s seemed so entirely untouchable for so long. When he’s been able to hurt them as much as he wanted, for as long as he wanted, again and again. 

Enjolras could kill him. He could, if he could work out how.

And then he and Grantaire would be free. Really free. They wouldn’t have to worry about making money, they wouldn’t have to worry about him coming back. Enjolras could slowly nurse Grantaire back to health, and know that they were both going to be all right.

Yes, that makes sense. It won’t be easy, of course. The practicalities alone are enough to intimidate him. Actually doing it will be harder, especially if Enjolras remains so cowardly-frightened of him. He shouldn’t be frightened, he should be angry. He suffered so little, comparatively. The right way to feel would be to be enraged on Grantaire’s behalf, not to be so weak that he’s afraid of the occasional beating that was directed his own way. 

But he’ll do it. It doesn’t matter how he feels. The right decision for both of them is to remove this man from their lives permanently. When he’s dead, Grantaire will be able to feel safe. When he’s dead, Grantaire will be able to be happy again. It’ll be worth it.

“Ange?”

At the sound of Grantaire’s nickname for him, Enjolras jumps. He looks down at the other end of the bed, where his love is still curled up. Now, though, he has one eye half-open. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I was. I heard you worrying.”

“Was I talking to myself? I’m sorry.”

“No, you didn’t make any noise. I just mean that I could tell you were worrying, and it woke me. And before you make that frown—yes, that one—I don’t mind.”

“Don’t mind what?”

“You keeping me up,” Grantaire says, but Enjolras gets the sense it means far more than just that. It’s all the things Grantaire has given up for Enjolras—and there have been so many. Too many. 

“Maybe you should.”

“Hey,” Grantaire says, sitting upright—though he winces as he does, further evidence that he’s already suffered far too much on Enjolras’ account—“What’s that about?”

“I mean, maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to throw yourself on the sword that’s pointing at me.”

Grantaire lifts an eyebrow. “Sort of a clumsy metaphor, don’t you think? Considering.”

Enjolras flushes when he realizes the possible other sense of his words, and starts to apologize, but Grantaire cuts him off. 

“Only teasing. Come here, will you?”

Grantaire uncurls a little bit, making room for Enjolras next to him. Enjolras has a slight sense that something isn’t quite right, as though Grantaire is deliberately steering him away from a certain topic of conversation, or perhaps something else. But he can’t resist the rare sight of Grantaire pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. 

“That’s it,” Grantaire murmurs, as Enjolras stretches out beside him. He even takes Enjolras’ fingers in his, lacing their hands close together, and draws their joined hands up to his mouth so he can press a kiss to the back of Enjolras’ hand. 

Enjolras’ eyes flutter closed. He doesn’t deserve this, he knows, but Grantaire has always made it so easy to take from him—his sacrifices, his intimacies, his boundless love. 

He hadn’t realized how exhausted he was. The stress of the day—of Grantaire’s faint, of his new resolution—must have worn heavily on him. With the warm weight of Grantaire’s hand in his, it’s easy to drift to sleep. He knows that Grantaire is safe and in his grasp for the moment. Soon, he will make him even safer. 

He doesn’t notice when the warmth fades away. He doesn’t rouse at the weight shifting out of the bed next to him. He doesn’t wake when the door creaks open. 

When he wakes, with the light of dawn filtering in through the window, the other half of the bed is still and cold. Before Grantaire left, he folded the bedsheets carefully back around Enjolras, so he’s still tucked in. 

He doesn’t now how long Grantaire has been gone.


	13. In Which a Heroic Sacrifice is Thwarted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for thoughts about/memories of sexual abuse
> 
> also for some weird stuff about sex work that I'm not sure how to tag, but just be aware that that's a subject in this chapter and that, as is typical of this fic, it is not presented with grace, tact, and political sensitivity

Enjolras is fast asleep next to him. Grantaire waits until he’s really, really sure of that. 

He doesn’t want to be caught. Because Enjolras might try to stop him and because, Grantaire admits if only to himself, it would be so, so tempting to let him. 

He doesn’t like lying to Enjolras. Not that he’s lied to Enjolras, exactly, but he is definitely being deceitful. He’s doing something that Enjolras wouldn’t like, really wouldn’t like, which never feels good. He loves Enjolras, and he doesn’t want to do anything that would be against his wishes. 

Besides, the lying, in general, troubles him. He wants Enjolras to start learning how to feel safe again, after years of being lied to and tricked and manipulated. Sneaking out behind is back won’t help with that. It’s not like Enjolras has many people he can count on. It’s pretty much just Grantaire who’s on his side. 

Well, Grantaire is doing this for him. It might not be what Enjolras thinks he wants, it might be something Enjolras felt obligated to say he didn’t want Grantaire to do at all, but the fact of the matter is, it’s the clearest way out for both of them. 

He won’t sell himself. That much he’s decided isn’t worth it. Enjolras still needs him, for whatever incomprehensible reason. 

But that doesn’t mean he can’t get the money.

That way, they’ll be able to disappear. Both of them, since he suspects that Enjolras won’t consent to go without him. And that way, he’ll be able to take care of Enjolras the way he needs. They’ll have money to travel to another country, England most likely, and to set themselves both up in a house somewhere far away while Grantaire looks for work to support them. Master won’t be able to find them, and Enjolras will be safe. 

He lets himself indulge in the fantasy for a moment while he gathers his strength. Enjolras looks so pleasant, so peaceful, lying there. His golden hair falls over his beautiful face, casting a shadow over his nose. Grantaire lets himself reach across, tucking the strand back over Enjolras’ ear. He imagines they’re somewhere else, not in this house with the friends they barely remember but in another country, where Master will never find them. He imagines that he’s done it, that he’s gotten Enjolras to a permanent form of safety.

Yes, it’s worth it.

He’s made this choice before, after all. Just a few days ago he was persuading Enjolras to run, to leave him behind. That was certainly worthwhile, but he hadn't recognized then that it just wouldn't be enough. Enjolras won't really be safe until Grantaire has gotten him as far away from Master as they can go.

That means money. And he knows how he can get that. There’s one thing about him that's valuable, after all.

Enjolras doesn’t stir when Grantaire leans in close and kisses his forehead, so that's a sign that everything is okay. He’ll be able to get away.

He leaves the bed, checking to make sure Enjolras hasn't stirred. He hasn't, still perfectly peaceful in his deep sleep. Grantaire smiles a little to himself. Enjolras is just so beautiful like this, so happy and calm, just as he deserves to be. 

Grantaire just loves him so much. Grantaire is just so lucky to have the opportunity to make him happy, to keep him safe. He’ll never be glad of their captivity, of course, but at least now he can do something for Enjolras, instead of being the useless waste he was before.

That last look is enough to get him ready. He has to go now, while there’s still time before Enjolras awakes. He can't predict what his sleep cycle will be, after all.

He determines the best way out is through the window. He doesn't want to risk meeting one of the others in the hallway, especially because he has no way of knowing how angry they'll be that he's out of bed. Luckily, they're only on the second floor.

It's not an easy jump. He fits through the open window readily enough in his starved state, but it's still hard to make himself do it.

The landing is agonizing, the impact radiating up through his sore limbs and making him catch on a sob in his throat. But it’s necessary. It's for Enjolras.

He begins to walk.

He hasn't realized how physically difficult this was going to be. He was braced, emotionally, for the fact that he wouldn't like the actual act after everything he has had to endure lately. And obviously the act itself would hurt. Acts. But getting there, he hadn’t accounted for.

Grantaire just focuses on putting one foot in front of another. If he does that for long enough, he’ll be past the gate that guards the Pontmercy estate. Another few steps, and he’ll be at the end of the block. After that, it’s a straight, if long, shot to the riverfront, the Quartier Latin, and the city’s dens of vice. In a different life, he had been an enthusiastic customer of certain of the young women who worked there. He liked the flirtatious, smiling girls more than the pretty ones. Though he often had to pay extra to make up for his face the first time, he proved himself a thoughtful lover and a good customer, and soon he was popular enough there.

He won’t attract many people himself, not right away. He knows he’s not good looking. But he can sell at a rate lower than anyone else, and he can take more pain than anyone. Master always said he was valuable in that way. Plenty of the men Master brought to him laughed at first, when they saw how he looked, but they were always pleased in the end… after the first few times. Grantaire quickly learned how to make up for what he lacks physically. That will have to be enough to do what he needs to do. 

It has to be enough. Enjolras is counting on him, though he doesn’t even know it. Enjolras needs him. He needs to be able to get away from here.

The pain is so overwhelming, though. Every step is agony. His shirt rides down across the whip marks and the brand on his back. His legs scream with the effort of traveling so far—though he’s counted less than a hundred steps since he left the house. And between his legs…

He won’t think about that yet. He’s going to have to face that pain in a far more immediate fashion, and soon. Better to put it out of his mind, while he still can. It’s better not to think about that part of his body at all, in fact, to pretend that it’s someone else’s, that it’s not really him that they’re hurting. 

It’s best to go away in his mind. That lets him pretend that he’s more than what they think he is, more than just a whore, a hole.

And here he is, going back to that willingly. How Master would laugh, if he could see what Grantaire is doing to himself. Not even three days free and he’s going back to ask for more of the same treatment he’d fled from. Master always told him that he loved it, deep down, that secretly he knew he was made for this.

Grantaire wishes he could do something to push the unwanted thought out, but it lingers. He tells himself firmly that it’s not true, or even if it is, he doesn’t have to be reigned in by that awful part of himself. He can be more, be better. He can transcend it. And he isn’t doing this because he wants to. He’s doing it for Enjolras. 

He ignores the part of his mind that reminds him that his feelings for Enjolras aren’t what they should be. He doesn’t love Enjolras the way he should, with pure veneration. The way Enjolras deserves. He wants him, wants to do filthy and disgusting things to him. He never would, of course, he’d never dare touch Enjolras like that. And he’s never seen the appeal in an unwilling partner, though by now he has had to realize there must be something that draws men to force others into their beds. Still, although Grantaire has little enough to commend him as a human being, he doesn’t suffer from that fault. He’s not so awful he would actually degrade Enjolras with his touch, but it’s bad enough to want him. 

He shakes his head as if it can push the thoughts out, and the act makes him dizzy. He hesitates for a second. He even lets himself put his hands on his thighs and breathe in slowly, carefully, until his head clears a little bit. 

The wall is in sight. He’s so close. It’s just a few more short steps. He takes a deep breath and focuses his mind on the image of Enjolras asleep in bed, Enjolras safe and trusting. He lets himself imagine how good it will be to take Enjolras away from danger permanently.

They used to pass the time talking about what they had loved about the other world, lest they forget there was anything except the prison that Master created. Enjolras talked about how he loved to read, loved to turn ideas over in his mind, loved to take long walks outside, loved to soak up the company of his friends. 

When Grantaire has done this for him, he’ll be able to do all of that. He’ll spend his days outdoors. It’s nice to picture him by a riverside somewhere, reading a book under the shade of a tall willow tree. 

And every night, he’ll sleep as peacefully as he’s sleeping now, and no one will hurt him again. 

Grantaire will have done that for him. Even if that’s the last Grantaire ever sees of him, it will be good enough. 

The image, the fantasy, is enough to keep him going towards where he has to go. 

When he gets there, he’s going to let himself imagine other things, too. He usually tries not to think about Enjolras at moments like those, but in the very worst times, he’s permitted himself to picture Enjolras instead of Master or the men who paid Master to rent Grantaire’s body for a little while. He knows he shouldn’t, but it makes it so much easier. He could want it, if it were Enjolras, no matter how much it hurt. And in a way it is, because all of this, all of it, is for Enjolras. He would have let Master kill him years ago, maybe right at the beginning, if not for Enjolras. He would have given up and done anything Master said, all along, if not for Enjolras. If not for what Master would have done, or made him do, to Enjolras. 

He’s doing this for Enjolras too. So he doesn’t have to be ashamed. He doesn’t have to hate himself for doing it. It may be disgusting and filthy but it’s the right thing to do. It’s the only way.

He’s at the gate now, his hand on the handle. He can barely push it down. It takes all his strength to budge the wrought-iron gate. His breath is coming heavy now, and the act of moving is getting harder and harder. Moving from the softness of the lawn to the heaviness of the cobblestones doesn’t help, either.

He’s furious at himself. If he’s already so weak, there’s no way he’ll be of any use to Enjolras tonight. He doesn’t think about turning back, but he does briefly entertain the idea that he ought to give himself another day or two. Perhaps when he’s a little stronger, if the soft treatment he’s gotten at the house continues, he’ll be more useful.

Then he catches that thought, frowning. More weakness. He’s just trying to let himself off easy, not do what needs to be done. 

A few more steps, he tells himself. He should focus on the physical acts. A few more steps. Then turn. Then a few more. Then across the river. Stand against a doorway. Unbutton his shirt collar. Make eye contact with the men that pass, the big ones, the ones who try not to look back. They’re the ones who are looking for boys, not girls. Set his price, low, a few sous. Don’t start high and try to haggle. Too much of a risk they’ll just walk away, and he’s desperate. Knees. Mouth open. Do what he does best. For a few sous more, they can fuck him, too. It doesn’t matter what happens to him. It’s not like there’s anything about him worth saving. 

“I think that’s enough, R.” 

The voice comes out of nowhere, and Grantaire just about jumps out of his skin at the sound. It’s a boy’s voice, not a man’s, high-pitched and familiar. He turns around.

Gavroche is leaning against the side of a building just in front of him. He’s grown so much. He must be fourteen now, no longer entirely the gamin of the streets but a young man.

“I was just—“

“Doing something stupid. I figured you would. Saw you leaving through the kitchen window. C’mon. Let me help you home.”

Grantaire looks around wildly. Gavroche is only a child, but Grantaire still probably can’t outrun him, and he won’t hit a little kid, even for Enjolras’ sake.

Gavroche heaves a theatrical sigh. “Listen. You can stop worrying, okay? He’s dead.”


	14. In Which A Lady Receives an Unwanted Delivery

Baroness Cosette de Pontmercy is not having a very good day, and it’s not yet dawn. There are two traumatized, highly wanted traitors living in her guest room. Half a dozen of her husband’s friends have also taken up apparently permanent residence in a home that, while sizeable, is not staffed to fit such a cohort. Her father has been in a permanent sulk since the rescue, entering one of his periodical and profoundly irritating moods of self-flagellation where he wants to sleep on the floor and eat only bread and water, and she doesn’t have time to cajole him out of it. The only person who seems inclined to do anything to actually help her manage this pile of houseguests is the girl who was at one point in love with her husband and who now lives in the attic with her pseudo-criminal adolescent brother. She has two small children to look after, and somehow protect from all of this, which no one seems to recognize. And now, to top it all off, a well-dressed gangster has just arrived in her parlor with a corpse.

“You can’t leave that here,” she says. She’s impressed with how calm she sounds, like she’s telling a deliveryman not to position the couch below the window where it might fade quickly, and not informing a total stranger that he can’t leave a dead body in the middle of her beautifully-appointed parlor. 

“Fuckin’ bitch, thinks she’s smarter than me,” the man mutters, and Cosette would be more offended were it not fairly obvious that it’s not her he’s addressing. “Tell Éponine I got her man. And I’m keeping the money. And next time she wants something from me, she should ask fuckin’ nicely, not try and trick me. Tell her that.”

“Um.” Cosette is generally composed under most circumstances, but the nuns didn’t exactly cover the appropriate etiquette for this situation. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The girl tried to convince me to kill this man. Well, she did convince me to kill him.”

“You mean Éponine?”

“Who else?”

Good question. Somehow, it always seems to be Éponine. Cosette’s whole life is basically just the story of Éponine interfering. Not out of any spite against Cosette—actually, the funny thing is, the two of them quite like each other. They spend a fair amount of time together, too, since Éponine and her brother live here now, and most of it is surprisingly pleasant. It’s just that, Cosette’s entire life, whenever she’s had a really serious problem (her mother leaving her with abusive foster parents, her husband almost getting killed in an unsuccessful armed rebellion, and now this), Éponine shows up. “And you did?”

“She was right. He had money. Not’s much as she made me think. And he deserved it, so I killed him for it anyways.”

She’s going to have to have serious words with Éponine about not bringing criminal proceedings into Cosette’s home, where her children live. “Is hauling the dead body into my parlor precisely necessary?”

“I’ll send one of the lads to dispose of it later today. But I want her to see.”

“I’ll just tell her. Please take the body with you.”

The man bows. “If only I could accommodate, madam. By your leave.”

She does not give it, but he goes anyway. Somehow, Cosette gets the idea that arguing with him would be a bad idea. Polite as he is, the kind of man who breaks into your house to drop a dead body on the parlor table is almost definitely not the kind of man you want to start a fight with. 

She sighs, and goes to find Papa. He’ll know what to do, and perhaps doing her a favor will shake him of his depression. It’s worked before. 

On her way out the door, though, she finds not her father, but Enjolras. The man is still thin as a rail, his long golden hair hanging around his frail shoulders. He’s wearing a nightdress and nothing else, but he looks passionately awake, not feeble. “You have to help me,” he rasps.

“All right. Come on, sit down,” she says, taking his hand to lead him—not in to the parlor, since that’s apparently where they keep the bodies now—but into the formal sitting room. He doesn’t look like he’s capable of standing for very long.

“No,” he says, his eyes almost bulging out of his head. Cosette is a little worried he’s going to seriously hurt himself if he doesn’t get his way, so she just steps back, holding his hands up so he won’t worry she’s going to hurt him. She probably couldn’t really harm him even if she wanted to, which of course she doesn’t, but she remembers well enough what it felt like to feel that everyone in the world was against you. She remembers flinching the first time her papa reached to hug her. 

“Will you tell me what’s the matter, Enjolras? I want to help, but I can’t do that unless I know what’s upsetting you so much.”

“Grantaire’s gone. Grantaire’s not in bed,” he manages to stammer.

“Okay. Can you take a deep breath for me?”

Enjolras gives her such a withering look that for a second, she stops worrying abut him. “I do not need to calm down. I need to find Grantaire.”

“Let’s make a plan for how to do that. If you try to stay as calm as you can—I know it’s not easy—we’ll figure out how we can do that, okay?”

“Okay,” he says, and suddenly all the intensity has gone out of his voice. He sounds deflated, miserable. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout at you. It’s not Grantaire’s fault.”

“I’m not upset with you. Just concerned.” And every word he says is more and more concerning. At first, she’d thought it was obviously Grantaire with the more pressing trauma, but Enjolras seems barely functional himself. “When did you last see him?”

“Before I went to sleep. He was in bed with me.”

Cosette has been wondering about that, but this hardly seems the moment to try to ask if they’re lovers. She imagines Enjolras wouldn’t be too happy to hear the question. “Did you two argue, or anything like that?”

“No. No, we were…” Enjolras is wringing his hands now, shifting under her gaze. “He seemed happier than usual, if anything. He was more willing to talk to me, all the things, well, all the things he usually doesn’t really do. And then, um, we fell asleep. Or I guess I fell asleep. I thought he was already sleeping. And then the sun woke me up, and he was gone—“

At that, the door scrapes open, and Gavroche stumbles in. He’s stumbling because he’s basically carrying a slumped-over Grantaire, who is dragging his feet and leaning over the lad’s back. Gavroche is quite strong now, but he can’t even support his weight, since Grantaire is unable to do anything to help him. He looks even sicker than he did when he first stumbled through her door. Cosette rushes over to help him, but not before Enjolras does, scooping Grantaire into his own frail arms. 

She’s never seen anything quite like the expression on Enjolras’ face as he takes Grantaire into his arms—the relief, the devotion, the tenderness. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Grantaire is saying, the words slurred in between hiccups and sobs. 

“It’s okay. I’m not angry, R. Hey. Hey. Can you look at me?” Enjolras pulls back a little bit, just so that Grantaire can see his face while Enjolras continues to brace him by the shoulders. “I promise, I’m not mad. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“I failed you,” Grantaire says, in a low voice, and Cosette knows she isn’t meant to hear this but she also knows that neither of them is likely to divulge the kind of information that would let her help them in a meaningful way, so eavesdropping it is. Enjolras pulls Grantaire back into his arms, rubbing his back, holding him up with his own meagre strength. 

“What do you mean?”

“The money. I didn’t get it. I’m sorry.”

“What were you going to do? R?”

But Grantaire doesn’t answer, just looks away from Enjolras’ worried gaze towards the floor. Enjolras falls silent, just rocking him back and forth. 

Cosette takes this as her moment to interrupt. “Gavroche, will you go get your sister?”

“Why?”

“Because someone came with a message for her. And a dead body. Which is currently in the parlor.”

“Oh, yeah.” Gavroche smiles. “That was ‘Parnasse. I met ‘im on his way in. The stiff is the guy that had them two.”

“What?” Cosette exclaims, because that’s not very clear. Or rather, it’s perfectly clear, but it’s not very easy to believe. “Really?”

“He… he’s dead?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire just looks around. He’s half-dead himself, poor thing. 

“I want to see,” Enjolras says fiercely. “I want to know.”

Cosette leads the way back into the parlor. She’s not entirely sure this is a good idea, especially for Grantaire (who looks like he shouldn’t be out of bed at all, much less coming face-to-face with the somewhat mangled corpse of the man who had tormented him for so many years). But she also knows better than to try and stop Enjolras with that look in his eye. She may not know him well, but she knows what that expression means.

It means that nothing will stop him.

No sooner are they in the room than Enjolras is settling Grantaire down on the chair nearest the door and rushing to the table by himself.

“Is it—“ Grantaire asks, his voice breaking.

Enjolras looks down at the table and nods. “It’s him.”

There’s a flurry of activity then. Enjolras walks all around, examining the corpse. He looks at his injuries—the bruises, the scrapes, and the neat knife wound that encircles his throats. He checks for a pulse at one wrist, and then the other, and then at his throat. He puts a finger in front of his mouth to make sure he’s not breathing. He presses at a limb to see that it’s stiff. And then he starts to cry.

Grantaire is back up on his feet before anyone can stop him, though he sways unsteadily at the motion. He stumbles over to Enjolras and grasps his hand gently. Cosette can’t hear what he says, but Enjolras shakes his head. 

“No, no, I’m okay. It’s just… I just didn’t believe it until right now. We—we’re free. He’s gone. He’s dead. We’re free.”

Enjolras keeps repeating it, like he can’t convince himself that it’s true. Grantaire stares up at him, just at Enjolras, not at the body on the table. 

“I’m going to get this out of here,” Cosette interrupts. “You two need to go back up to bed. Gavroche, get Marius to help. And then my father.”

Gavroche knows better than to ignore the sharp edge in her voice, so he nods and scampers off to do as he’s been told. Cosette helps Enjolras and Grantaire settle in a chair in the meantime. They’re curled up next to each other, no longer looking at the body. Just at each other. 

Marius knocks on the door tentatively. “Hi.”

“Marius.” Cosette flits over to her husband, kissing him on the cheek. “Will you help Enjolras and Grantaire back up to bed, please? They need their rest. Once they’re both settled in, Joly should come have a look at the two of them.”

“Of course.”

Between Enjolras—who won’t let go of his hand—and Marius, who can provide a little more manpower, they’re able to get Grantaire back out of the room and upstairs. Cosette sighs a little sigh of relief. It had been hard to think through the panic with the two of them in the room, knowing she might set them off with any ill-chosen word. 

Next is her father, who, to his credit, doesn’t even blink at the sight of the corpse on the table. “Good riddance,” he says, with an anger that surprises her, coming from her level-headed Papa. But she’d forgotten, he’d seen the man in life, too, seen him standing over a terrified and beaten Grantaire. 

“One of Éponine’s friends dropped the body off. They’ve seen it, unfortunately.”

“No,” he says quietly. “It’ll be good. Now they know for sure that he’s gone. Now they can start getting better.”

She hopes that he’s right.

“I’ll get rid of this filth. You should wash up and make yourself a cup of tea or something. This has been hard on you, too.”

He heaves the corpse up over one shoulder and sets out. Cosette indulges in a moment of weeping, grateful as always for her father’s gentle, silent understanding, and then goes to start breakfast.


	15. In Which A Few Answers Are Attained

They’re left alone after that, though Cosette coaxes them out of the parlor and into the sitting room. She doesn’t want them in the room where Master’s body was, that much is clear. She must not understand that the sight of a dead Master is a thousand times less upsetting than even a moment spent with the living man, and they’d endured years of that. 

Nonetheless, as long as Enjolras has Grantaire at his side and safe, he’s happy. They’re sitting on the couch together, side by side. Enjolras sneaks a glance up at Grantaire. 

He looks pale, no color at all in his cheeks. His hair hangs low over his eyes. He has a bruise blossoming on one cheek and a black eye on the other side. His lip, though no longer bloodied, is still visibly split. He’s so thin that Enjolras can see the twitch of his muscles through his face. He’s sitting perfectly still, but his hands are trembling a little with the effort of remaining upright. 

It would hurt to see him like this, except that every time Enjolras sneaks a glance at him, he is reminded that Grantaire is safe now. Master is dead and he’ll never touch Grantaire ever again. 

He lets that thought sink in. 

Yes, it’s true that Grantaire is in pain and afraid right now. That’s not good. But there’s no new pain coming. Enjolras can focus on taking care of him for now.

That is, if Grantaire will let him.

He doesn’t want to rush things, especially not when Grantaire seems so upset already, but he has to know.

“R?”

Grantaire jumps a little in his seat, but then slowly turns his head to look at Enjolras. He doesn’t quite meet Enjolras’ eyes—he rarely does, Enjolras has noticed. He doesn’t know why that is. There are too many details of Grantaire’s suffering that he doesn’t quite know. They’ve been so close to each other throughout these long years, and yet Grantaire has always had a well of quietness inside him, has always hidden what he’s really thinking when the pain is at its worst. 

Enjolras remembers when Grantaire used to talk almost constantly. It was true throughout the days before their captivity, when they were free. It was true when they were first taken captive as well, and Grantaire hadn’t yet had all the fight beaten out of him. Not until after they fell into Master’s clutches did he learn to fear even the sound of his own voice. But now he speaks rarely—only when he’s ordered to, usually to repeat something humiliating about himself, or occasionally to beg for Enjolras’ sake. Since they escaped, it’s improved a little, but not enough that Enjolras expects him to volunteer information like where he went when he disappeared out of their bed and into the cold, dark night, while he’s barely even alive from the horror of the injuries that were inflicted on his defenseless body so that Enjolras could escape to freedom and leave him behind to suffer.

He forces himself to take a deep breath. Spiraling into a panic isn’t going to help anyone. It certainly isn’t going to help Grantaire. If he starts gasping for breath, Grantaire will only be able to focus on what he perceives as a danger to Enjolras, and he won’t tell Enjolras what’s wrong with him. It would be selfish of Enjolras to allow himself to become upset when he should be focusing on the important thing: Grantaire. 

Grantaire has suffered the most. And he did it for Enjolras’ sake. Enjolras was too weak and too stupid to figure out how to protect him from that, to make him understand that he should stop trying to do things for Enjolras and at least make sure he was safe himself. 

Now Enjolras has the chance he never stopped hoping for, the chance to make it up to Grantaire. He has the chance to help Grantaire recover from his injuries, the visible and the hidden, and he has to take it. 

“You don’t have to,” he continues, choosing every one of his words carefully. You never have to do anything you don’t want to do, not ever again. But if you’d be willing to talk about it, I really, really want to know where you went last night. I promise I won’t be angry. That’s not why I’m asking. I can’t promise I won’t be upset, but it’s never with you. Okay?”

“I’ll tell you,” Grantaire mumbles, still looking straight ahead. “If that’s what you want.”

“Only so I can help you feel better. It’s going to be really hard for us to figure out the best way to move forward if we’re not honest with each other, I think. And that doesn’t mean we have to start right this second, or that it’s all on you, or anything like that. But if you could—“

“I’ll tell you,” Grantaire repeats, and Enjolras realizes he should probably stop babbling and let Grantaire talk. There’s silence for a moment as Grantaire tries to take a breath. Enjolras hears his inhale come in as a shaky half-sob instead. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m just so ashamed.”

“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” Enjolras assures him. “Not that your feelings are wrong, just that—you know that none of what he did to you was your fault, right?”

“It’s not that. I—“ Grantaire falls silent again and then, all at once, he speaks. “If I’m going to be honest, Enjolras, I was going down to the riverbank because I was planning to whore myself out so that I could earn enough money that we could flee the country together.”

Time seems to slow to a stop, which is a good thing, because Enjolras needs a chance to figure out the right way to respond to Grantaire’s revelation. Obviously, he needs to be sure not to say anything that would make Grantaire feel at all embarrassed or ashamed of himself, or like he’s done something wrong. He needs to be perfectly clear that he appreciates Grantaire’s devotion, his attempts to sacrifice himself. And yet he also needs to make Grantaire understand that he must never do that again, that he has to start taking better care of himself or at least not actively trying to cause himself harm for Enjolras’ sake at every opportunity. 

Enjolras needs to get better at this, because he should have guessed that’s what Grantaire would have done. In retrospect, it seems very obvious. Grantaire’s been brainwashed into thinking that he’s nothing more than a body, that he has no value other than to be used. Of course he would try to leverage that for Enjolras’ sake in the only way he can think of, as he has so many times before. Enjolras was stupid not to realize that’s what he had been doing and try earlier to prevent it. But if he says that, he once again puts Grantaire in the position of comforting him, when of course it should be the other way around. 

“Of course I’m not happy you got ill,” he says instead, “but I’m so glad you didn’t end up doing that. It would never change my feelings about you, R, but I hate the thought of you doing something that would hurt yourself—the way I know you would be hurt if you had done that. And it’s not necessary, and I hope… I hope now that you see that it wasn’t needed this time, maybe next time you’ll think about other solutions before trying to sacrifice yourself for me. Or at least tell me, if you think that’s what you have to do.”

“But you would have stopped me,” Grantaire says softly. 

Enjolras doesn’t know what to say about that—it’s true. If he’d known that Grantaire were planning on going to a damp, dark and filthy street corner to try to share his body with any degenerate who would toss him a few coins for the pleasure, even after all he’s been through, he would have done everything short of physically restraining him to make sure he didn’t do so. He would have tried, as much as he could, with everything that was in him, to stop Grantaire from putting himself in a situation where he might once again be seriously hurt, let alone in such an intimate way. 

Grantaire speaks again, which makes Enjolras start a little in his seat. He’s not used to Grantaire speaking out of nowhere anymore. And then that thought makes him sad, and then he forces himself to start paying attention to what Grantaire is saying. “I did it because I wanted to. If I don’t help you, what am I good for?”

Okay. Okay, Enjolras can handle this. Grantaire has just earlier this week been beaten mostly to death and repeatedly raped for Enjolras’ sake, Enjolras can handle a difficult conversation. Enjolras is obligated to figure out how to handle this. It's just a hard conversation, not torture. Not much of an exchange. It’s the least he can do after all of Grantaire’s many, many sacrifices— too many to count. Certainly too many for Enjolras to ever repay. He knows that attacking this problem from the most obvious angle—Grantaire’s self-esteem—won’t be successful, given the many, many past attempts he has made to convince Grantaire that he is, in fact, a person with fundamental value, and the catastrophic failure of each of those attempts. Then there’s the possibility of pointing out that this attempt would not actually have helped Enjolras if it had come to fruition, since Master was already dead, but that’s most likely to just make Grantaire feel like he’s failed Enjolras and become ashamed and despondent. So Enjolras takes another tactic. “You help me in so many ways, R. Most of all, loving you helps me. It helps me remember that there’s something to live for. It helps me remember to be happy, even when things are at their worst. And there are a million other ways you help me, and each of them you can only do if you’re alive and well. I’m asking you to please, please take a little bit of care with yourself so that you can continue to be alive and well. That’s all. Can you do that for me?”

Phrased like that, as something he’s giving up for Enjolras’ sake, Grantaire can’t say no. It’s possible that it’s unfair for Enjolras to leverage Grantaire’s willingness to do things for his sake to get him to do what he would otherwise refuse to, but he can’t worry about that. Not when it might be the only thing keeping him from seriously harming himself in some way, or putting himself in terrible and very real danger. Enjolras would rather do something he perhaps shouldn’t—would rather push Grantaire, even after he’s already suffered so much coercion and force—than risk putting his precious life in real danger. It’s not an easy decision to make, though. “If it’s you or me, it’s going to be me,” Grantaire says. “Always. I’d apologize but I’m not sorry.”

“I’m guessing there’s no talking you out of that. Could I promise that you won’t try to do it behind my back, though?”

Grantaire nods, once, quickly. 

“I know the hard part isn’t over. I know there’s going to be a lot of suffering, a lot of fear, a lot of struggle. I just don’t want you doing it alone, my love. I want you to know that I’m here with you, here for you, every step of the way.”

“It’s really hard,” Grantaire mumbles. 

“I know.”

“Realizing that it’s over. I thought it would be so good, to not have to—to not have to be his anymore, to not have to worry every second about what was going to happen. But it turns out I have to worry anyways. It turns out that I don’t feel safe. I might not ever again.”

“I know, R. I know.”

“It’s not worse. But it’s still hard.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras agrees. He’s trying to keep his responses short, hoping that Grantaire will continue to feel comfortable talking, and it works. 

Grantaire bursts out—quietly, always quietly, but with an anger he hasn’t expressed for quite some time— “He’s dead. I saw his body. He’ll never hurt me again. Why am I still so fucking scared?”

“I am too.”

Grantaire barks out a short little laugh. It’s a horrible, bitter sound, not at all like the bell-like joy of Grantaire’s genuine laugh that Enjolras almost remembers. “Not like me.”

“You don’t know that, R.”

“You’re not scared like me. Not running off trying to whore yourself out like me. You’re not disgusting and pathetic and weak like me.”

This is what Enjolras was afraid of, the exact reaction he had so feared. Maybe he shouldn’t have pushed so much, shouldn’t have made Grantaire confess where he had been and what he had been doing or trying to do. Now Grantaire is upset, and talking about how much he hates himself, and that's never been what he intended. But maybe it's better for Grantaire to say it than to keep it bottled up inside, if all this is somehow really what he believes about himself (although the idea breaks Enjolras’ heart). “None of those things are true about you, R. Not a single one of them, not for a second. You’re so brave and so strong and I am so, so grateful for you and I love you. Do you believe me?”

Grantaire gives Enjolras a lackluster shrug and looks down at the ground. It's probably the best that Enjolras is going to get, unfortunately, so he lets it go. He’ll just have to keep repeating the words again and again, every day, until Grantaire starts to believe him. He’ll just have to be so good to Grantaire, every minute for the rest of his life, until Grantaire knows that he deserves it. And maybe one day, Enjolras will have done enough to deserve a tiny fragment of everything Grantaire has done for him.


	16. In Which the Patients Are Returned To Bed

The two of them are ushered back to bed by a nervous-looking Joly. “Neither of you should be up at all,” he scolds, but his hands are gentle as he guides them up the stairs. He doesn’t seem angry. And, Grantaire reminds himself, even if he were, he wouldn’t have the right to hurt them. Though he can’t forget that he would have the ability If he wanted to. It would be easy enough for him to overpower either of the two of them in their weakened states. Grantaire might not be able to protect Enjolras at all, no matter how he fought back, and even the thought of doing so sickens him. He knows what happens when he tries to fight. 

But he doesn’t hurt either of them on the way upstairs. In fact, his touch helps them navigate the stairs, since Grantaire can feel his legs protesting a bit with every step. 

At the top of the staircase, Enjolras hesitates. He’s looking at Grantaire with a soft, gentle expression, and Grantaire knows exactly what he wants. He can pretend he doesn’t, pretend he doesn’t see it or doesn’t realize what it means, but he wouldn’t have gotten this far without some talent for reading Enjolras’ expressions. 

Enjolras is hoping that Grantaire is going to say they should share a room again. He wants—or rather, thinks he wants—to be close to Grantaire, in spite of the evident fact that Grantaire is disgusting and any sensible person would recoil from him as soon as possible. However, he also won’t push the issue because he’s under the mistaken belief that Grantaire might need space. 

Grantaire knows he should let Enjolras continue on into his own separate room, let him silently assume that the right thing to do for Grantaire’s sake is to give him space to be alone.

So many problems could have been solved last night if he hadn’t been sharing a bed with Enjolras, after all. Just more proof that distance is what they need. And he has to start getting Enjolras used to the idea that he shouldn’t be around Grantaire at all. It’s beyond weak and stupid to think that he has a right to want Enjolras near. Master is dead. He’s seen the body. There’s nothing that he needs protecting from. He can no longer hide behind that excuse, or let himself think he’s doing anything for Enjolras besides corrupting him with his proximity. He has to let their separation begin happening, little by little. And once he’s started pushing Enjolras away, it will start to be natural. He’ll get used to being around better people than Grantaire and he’ll be ashamed that he ever depended on someone so worthless. 

Grantaire disgusts himself. After all he’s done for Enjolras’ sake, he can’t take a little simple separation?

Of course, it’s not just that he and Enjolras will be confined in separate rooms that makes it hard to do what he knows he has to do. It’s the reason why he has to do it. He has to start separating himself from Enjolras. Not for a night, or a day. Forever. Having Grantaire around will just remind him of his past suffering, and that’s the last thing Grantaire wants. Enjolras has been through enough without Grantaire like a lodestone around his neck, constantly triggering him to once again feel the fear and misery he had as a captive.

Besides, it’s not like Enjolras wanted anything to do with him before, he reminds himself. The memory of how Enjolras used to look at him comes into his mind, that look of mingled disdain and pity. He imagines that pitying glance, now mixed with the knowledge of just what Grantaire is, just how low he can be brought, and feels weak at the knees. Better to push Enjolras away now than have to live through that. 

“R, look at me?” Enjolras requests, his voice so gentle that even Grantaire can’t interpret it as anything other than concern. As always—with one notable exception—he does what Enjolras asks, meeting his burning blue eyes. It’s hard to maintain eye contact. Enjolras’ gaze is as intense as his voice is gentle, and it feels like he’s looking right into Grantaire’s heart, seeing everything Grantaire fears. “Will you do something for me?”

Anything. But Enjolras knows that already. 

“If I… if I can’t trust you to take care of yourself, if I don’t know whether or not you’re going to do something against your own best interests, something that will hurt you, every time I turn my back, I don’t know… I don’t know what to do.”

“I promise not to run off again,” Grantaire says dully. He doesn’t want Enjolras making himself ill with worry, after all, but it would be selfish to give in and say he can stay near him. Enjolras may think that’s what he needs, but he can only get so much better with Grantaire hanging around. If he’s to really leave his ordeal behind and live the full, happy life he was meant to, Grantaire needs to disappear. 

“That’s not what I meant, R,” Enjolras says, whispering. It’s probably so that Joly won’t overhear them, even though the doctor is studiously examining his own fingernails and not trying to listen in on their conversation at all. “I meant, I want you to be happy. To at least try to be. Have you given that a moment’s thought?”

“What?”

“Have you thought at all about what you want? Now that we’re free?”

Grantaire shrugs. Of course, the truth is that he doesn’t have to think about it. He knows exactly what he wants, selfishly, and it starts and ends with being with Enjolras. “We should go to bed,” he says. “You’re still not well.”

“Are you going to make me go off on my own again? I will if you ask me to, but you know it’s not what I want.”

“It should be.”

That’s not a yes, though. And it’s what he should have said. Yes, I’m making you go off on your own. Go in the other room. Close the door, Don’t look at me. Don’t be near me. Don’t stay so close that at any moment my contagion could infect you, could turn you into something disgusting like me. 

But he doesn’t say any of that. He lets Enjolras follow him into the same bedroom where they’d spent the night (or, rather, spent the night up until Grantaire’s window escapade).

Joly settles them into bed. “A few suggestions,” he says, sounding much more confident than earlier. “I’m your friend and your doctor. I can’t tell you what to do and I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to. Tempting as it is to put bars on the windows so my critically ill patient doesn’t try to make an escape through the second-story window in the middle of the night… but I shan’t do that. If you want to risk life and limb, I can’t stop you. But if you want to get better—for each other’s sake, if you won’t do it for your own—here’s what you need to do.”

The rules are pretty simple. Stay in bed—they’re given a bell so they can ring, the way in another household one might ring for a maid, if they need anything. Take frequent sips of tepid water to counteract dehydration. Eat small, bland meals several times a day. And, though Joly admits this isn’t so much a medical as a mental concern: tell us if there’s anything wrong. “Anything at all,” he says. “If you can bring yourself to. I understand—well, I don’t understand. But I can imagine how difficult it would be to ask for anything after what you’ve been through. But try, maybe. If you can. Try and tell us if there’s anything you want that you don’t have. If there’s another meal that would be easier to stomach, or you don’t care for what’s prepared. If you feel ready to take a quick walk up the hall, or if you want us to help you out onto the patio so you can get some fresh air. If there’s someone other than us who you’d like us to get in touch with, so they know you’re back. I don’t know what it will be, of course, but I want—we all want—you to have what you need to grow strong again.”

“Thank you, Joly,” Enjolras manages. Apparently he’s well enough that he should be ready to start walking around the house and gardens in a few days. Grantaire is supposed to remain tucked up in bed for the foreseeable future, especially given his recent nighttime jaunt may have exposed him to, as Joly puts it, all sorts of chills and maladies. 

Grantaire doesn’t feel particularly ill. Tired and sore, certainly, but not like he’s about to get an illness. But he’s used to Joly’s fussing. Or was used to it, anyway, in another life. Strange, to go back to that. No one has cared much how he felt about anything for a few years. Except Enjolras, if that counts. But Enjolras only worries about him out of guilt, because Grantaire has yet to make him understand why he does what he does, why he is so willing, eager, pathetically ready to make sacrifices for him. He’s tried confessing it, tried to make Enjolras see that it’s because of his feelings, his feelings that he shouldn’t have, but that hasn’t worked yet.

Maybe as Enjolras recovers, he’ll start to realize. That would be good, Grantaire tells himself, even though the thought makes a rising ball of panic stick in his throat, choking him where he sits. But it would be. If Enjolras told Grantaire to go away, it would be a sign that he was improving, that he was back to his old self.

His old self who hated Grantaire.

Grantaire shouldn’t pity himself. Everything he suffered for Enjolras, he chose. Enjolras didn’t have that luxury in their captivity. 

He didn’t notice Joly coming in again and leaving them their water and plain baked crackers, but he must have at some point, because they’re alone in the room and Enjolras is urging him to eat. 

“Joly said just two of these would be really good, if you can do that. Will you try?”

And his voice is so gentle, so concerned, that Grantaire forces himself to sit up although his muscles protest at the movement. He accepts a cup of water, which feels strangely heavy in his hand, and a cracker, which he nibbles at gently. The food makes his stomach turn, plain and simple and slight as it is. He isn’t going to be sick again, though, he thinks. At least he should be able to keep the food down. 

“That’s so good, R,” Enjolras praises, and Grantaire snaps. 

“Don’t fucking talk to me like that.” 

He regrets it as soon as he’s said it, watching Enjolras pull away from him like he’s been burned—like he’s frightened. And of course he would be. Grantaire was stupid not to think of it before losing his temper. He’s selfish. He forgets that Enjolras has been through just as much as he has. He never should have raised his voice. Enjolras would never do something like that to him. 

“I only meant—“ Enjolras says, still tentative. 

“I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m the one… I’m the one who should… I should’ve realized how it sounded. I only menat that I’m happy if you do the things that will help you get better because I care about you. I didn’t mean to—“

And only then does Grantaire, slow as ever, make the connection. “You think I was thinking of—Enjolras, I know you’re not him. You can tell me you’re pleased or displeased or whatever suits you best without worrying that it’s going to come across like a reward or punishment or whatever. You’re not him and I know that.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“I just don’t want to stir anything up, to remind you of anything. You’ve been through so much.”

“Not nearly as much as you.”

Grantaire is shocked into silence at that. He’s never thought of it that way. He can’t argue, although it’s his impulse to do so—he supposes that, as far as anyone can quantify, it’s true that Enjolras didn’t suffer nearly as much physical brutality as Grantaire did. But Grantaire was always choosing to endure what he did. For Enjolras’ sake, not out of some pathological desire to be hurt, of course, but still. Enjolras got no choice. Grantaire didn’t give him one, didn’t listen when time and time again Enjolras pled with him to let him take some of the pain onto his own shoulders. 

“You’re so strong,” Enjolras says, and this is all wrong. He’s supposed to be realizing all of Grantaire’s many flaws, not speaking sweetly and softly to him. “You’ve been through so much. Will you let me take care of you now, as much as I can? Please?”

Grantaire doesn’t answer. He can’t. If he opens his mouth to speak, he’ll say yes, and he can’t do that. But he can’t bring himself to say no, either, not when what he wants, what he’s always wanted, is on offer. 

Enjolras lets the silence hang between them for a few long seconds. Then he reaches over, taking the glass of water, empty now, out of Grantaire’s trembling hand. “You should try to sleep if you can. I know you didn’t, last night. You need to heal up. Everything else can wait.”


	17. In Which Two Old Friends Reach An Agreement

Marius is out of his depth here. This whole thing, in fact, is exactly the sort of stuff that demands skills that Marius doesn’t have. Tact. Sensitivity. Saying the right thing at the right time. 

In some ways, though, that’s an advantage. Marius is usually out of his depth. Even very normal interactions stymie him, so he is quite used to being fumbling and uncomfortable. Now, in a situation that even the terrifyingly competent (Éponine, Valjean, Cosette) are trembling to face, Marius has, in certain ways, found his moment to shine.

Now, he doesn’t actually go into the sickroom. He and Enjolras had a strained relationship at the best of times, and whatever transcendence of that happened on the barricades doesn’t matter much. He’s not even sure that Enjolras would remember that, especially with all he’s been through in the years since. 

Enjolras’ real best friends, Combeferre and Courfeyrac, are both lost, but Jehan, Joly, and Feuilly were all his intimates before the barricade. Surely in its wake he would rather have their comfort than that of a near-stranger. Joly is a doctor, helping materially as they fight to regain their health. Jehan is a wonderful person to talk to with any problems. Feuilly has always been someone Enjolras admired. 

And he hardly knows Grantaire. Frankly, since the other man’s return, he’s been a little afraid of him, of how wild-eyed and unpredictable his behavior is. Marius’ vague knowledge of the trauma that was inflicted on him fills him with a mostly-nameless horror. He doubts he can do anything to help, as Joly works toward healing him physically and Enjolras tries to urge him to take better care of himself. 

Marius is just, well, there.

But fortunately, there are plenty of important tasks that can be done without seeing either of his afflicted friends at all. 

There’s the house, for one thing. It doesn’t seem like much, but at least it’s a safe space where they can start to heal without worrying about the technicalities, like paying for food and shelter while neither of them is able to work.

Marius had never planned on being wealthy, after all. He had never really expected his grandfather to leave him the house or the title, and then spent some time truly indigent, disowned without even a roof over his head. It feels right to be able to pay that forward a little bit, to do something for the friends who had given him a purpose. It pleases him, too, to think of how much his grandfather would have hated the fact that Marius is turning his beloved mansion into a refuge for traitors and the impoverished, two groups the mean old man had always disdained above all else. 

Most importantly, though, it makes him remember Courfeyrac, who had taken a homeless and bumbling Marius under his wing and helped him when he was alone in all the world. He’ll never be able to truly repay Courfeyrac for what he did. Indeed, tragically, he’ll never really be able to thank him, because Courfeyrac is gone. He can only remember what his friend did for him and try to be someone a little bit like him: kind whenever he could be, making the world a bit better wherever he went, a loving and loyal friend. 

He doesn’t know the best way to make sure Enjolras and Grantaire know they can stay as long as they want, indefinitely, if need be. It seems like an awkward conversation, and one that might just make them feel even more uncomfortable.

Fortunately, for all of Marius’ keenly felt defects, he has friends that can help him make up for them. Éponine notices him loitering outside their door in the morning, just after the horrible sight of a body dumped in their parlor and still unsure if he’s the right person to address it at all. 

“I’ve talked to them,” she says.

“Sorry?”

“When I brought them breakfast this morning. I let them know that Gavroche and I live here—that we’ve lived here for years, that you and Cosette never asked us for anything in return. They know. So don’t worry about that, all right?” 

Marius stares at her, shocked—though he’s not sure why, it’s hardly the first time she’s done something like this—that she seems able to read his mind. At that look, her expression softens.

“I don’t know whether or not they believed me. I don’t know whether or not they’ll stay, or if they’re going to run off in the middle of the night again, the way they tried to last night. Maybe they’ll be too scared to stay, even with their friends. But I did the best I could to explain that they’d be safe and that they’re welcome here, like me and Gav have been.”

“Thank you,” he says, and hurries back downstairs.

The other thing he can do, other than provide a roof over their heads—which, though not without value, is mostly a passive thing on his part—is try to keep that house going. 

Although it’s only been five days since Enjolras staggered through their door, Cosette is already at her wit’s end trying to keep the house straightened out without disrupting either of them as they try to get their rest. She also has to keep the little ones—especially Aimée, who is now old enough to toddle into trouble anytime she sees the opportunity—out of the way. Neither of them would ever judge their friends for the horrors they have suffered, but that doesn’t mean that the children should have to see it for themselves. 

Marius feels terrible that it took him so long to notice that Cosette is drowning under the amount of work she has to do. He apologizes to his wife and takes over watching the little ones, which should at least slightly relieve her. It’s still not really fair that she has to do all the planning of what has to happen and when, but he’s so incompetent at that. At least he can help her get it done. 

So he’s sitting with Georges and Fantine, who, having just been nursed by their mother, are sound asleep, and playing jacks with Aimée. 

There’s a knock on the door. The sound makes Marius tense all over, which is ridiculous. He’s not the one who suffered horribly. But with all that’s happened in the last week, he can’t help a twisting knot of fear every time it seems like something might be about to change.

It’s Éponine, again. Who also tends to fill Marius with a vague fear, but at least he can identify the cause of that one: he’s afraid of Éponine because Éponine is, not to put too fine a point on it, terrifying. 

“Enjolras is asking for you. He wants to have a private word. We helped him into one of the sitting rooms upstairs, but Joly doesn’t want him to limp down the stairs just now. Will you come up? I’ll make sure Aimée doesn’t run off and choke on a 16th century Russian vase or anything.”

The vases are 17th century, but he’s not about to tell Éponine that, since she’d probably throw one at his head for his trouble. Instead, he gratefully hands the babbling three-year-old over to Éponine. He pretends not to hear as she says, “What do you want to do this afternoon, Aimée? Learn something new?”

Aimée’s laugh rings out through the halls.

“If you’re old enough to walk, you ought to know how to pick a lock. C’mon, Auntie Éponine will show you.”

As much as Marius would like to keep his little ones away from the more unsavory elements of the past, there are worse people Aimée could grow up to be like than Éponine, who is at least kind, funny, and endlessly self-reliant, even if she’s also something of a criminal. 

Thinking about that—and the relatively pleasant imagining of what Aimée will be like as an adult woman—keeps him from the panic that might otherwise set in as he approaches the stairs and his meeting with Enjolras. One of the sitting rooms on the wing that has been reserved for the two survivors—so that, though they haven’t been told this, their screams at night won’t disturb the children—has its door open, so Marius pokes his head in.

He sees Enjolras sitting up on a couch. The other man is dressed, albeit simply, in a long white shirt and trousers. He seems to be supporting himself without too much trouble, though he’s oddly still. Marius remembers him as a man always in motion, giving commands or reading or stockpiling necessities or addressing a crowd. It’s strange to see him on the couch doing nothing but waiting. 

“Come in, Marius,” Enjolras says, in a calm tone that is reassuringly Enjolras-like. Marius does as he asked, sitting himself down on the other chair in the room so he needn’t intrude too much on the other man’s space. 

“How are you feeling, Enjolras?” Marius asks.

“Much better than I have been for some time, thank you.”

“And Grantaire?”

That makes a curious expression pass over Enjolras’ face. His eyes light up, but his mouth turns down into a frown. “He is… not well. Physically, I believe he is beginning to heal. Joly tells us it will take some time since he was so weak to begin with, but at least his wounds have scabbed over and he’s keeping food down. It’ll be weeks before he’s off bedrest and more before he’s back to himself. At least, though, he’s in the right direction.”

“And, other than physically?” Marius asks, before he can catch himself and realize this is probably the exact sort of thing neither of them wants to talk about. He always does this kind of thing, too. Stupid Marius, always putting his foot in his mouth.

But Enjolras doesn’t seem to be angry—he just sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping downwards. “He is… afraid. Of, as near as I can tell, everything.”

“But the man who did this to you— I mean, he’s dead.”

“Yes. The suffering is over. The effects of it are not. May never be.”

“I’m so sorry, Enjolras.” 

Enjolras shrugs, slightly. “I’m not the one it happened to.”

That doesn’t seem right. Marius knows that it wasn’t just Grantaire that suffered, after all. He may have taken the worst of the physical trauma, as Joly has explained, but Enjolras was also a captive, and he was also hurt. Marius was the one who saw him on that first night, battered and naked with his feet torn to shreds from running barefoot through the streets. Enjolras, too, has been through an ordeal the rest of them can barely conceptualize. 

“Besides, it’s not my place to talk about it. But… this is difficult, but I don’t want him to wake up alone, so we should probably get to what I wanted to discuss.”

“Okay,” Marius says, inanely, as he himself recognizes. 

Enjolras hesitates for a second. Marius can hear the sound of him drawing in a slow, deep breath, like he’s trying to steady himself for something challenging. “I need to talk to you about how long we can stay here. What Éponine said, this morning. I have to know if it’s true.” The urgency in his words is obvious. This is clearly very important to him, and of course Marius understands why. It can’t be easy to be dependent on friends who have become strangers, not after all they’ve been through. 

“As long as you want,” Marius says instantly, and Enjolras looks confused. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Was that what you meant?”

“Yes. I was going to ask if we could stay just until Grantaire is a little better. Even though that might be a month or two. I’ll find a way to pay you back, I just… I have no savings, nothing. I wasn’t planning on living through the barricade, no matter what happened. And certainly for the last five years I never believed I would have a life outside of surviving and trying to keep Grantaire alive. When I ran out of that awful house, I had no notion of what I would do or where I could go, except that I knew that you might be here—or that the mansion might be empty. I thought perhaps a night, or two… but it won’t be safe for Grantaire to move for much longer than that, and I know that’s a great deal longer than I was planning to ask for shelter, maybe much more than you thought you wanted to give us, and—“

“Enjolras,” Marius says, and the other man falls silent. “Like I said. As long as you want. We have more room here than we know what to do with. Éponine and Gavroche have been living up in the attic for years, and it doesn’t bother us at all. Joly and Musichetta have their own apartment, and so does Feuilly, but for the moment Jehan is living with us, as well. There are twenty-two bedrooms in this house, and at least fifteen of them haven’t been used since we got the place. We’re happy to have you here, and happy to have you stay for as long as you want. Including forever! If you decide you’re comfortable here and you don’t want to be bothered with moving out on your own, if it’s just easier not to have to find a place, you can stay indefinitely. Okay?”

“Do you mean that?” Enjolras says, softly, wonderingly. 

“Yes.” His answer, short and to the point, seems to leave no room for even Enjolras to disagree. 

“I don’t know what to say. How to thank you.”

“How about, you tell me you’ll stay and I don’t have to worry about you trying to flee into the night, and we’ll call it even.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, but he makes no promises.


	18. In Which A Regard is Returned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... three months later. 
> 
> I'm so sorry about the wait, everyone. Have a new chapter.

Enjolras is back within a few moments of Grantaire waking up. But those few moments are more than enough time for Grantaire to work himself into a splendid panic. 

He’s gone. He’s snuck off and left Grantaire while he was sleeping, while he couldn’t even say goodbye.

Grantaire is supposed to be happy about this and he knows it. He told himself he’d be glad when Enjolras left, he’d accept it as the best thing for… well, not for both of them. Because nothing could ever be good for him again, not without Enjolras near enough to touch. He knows that the fact that Enjolras is okay and safe now ought to be enough, but he’s too selfish for that. 

And now he’s spiraling. Great. He can’t even take a proper breath, he’s so stupid and useless. So dependent on someone who has finally realized the truth, which is that it was a mistake to ever, even for a second, choose to be anywhere near Grantaire and he should have run screaming in the opposite direction the instant he was able to, and now he can. So yay for everyone except for Grantaire, he supposes, and for Grantaire, well. He’ll try to keep breathing around the loss of Enjolras at his side, although he’s not sure what the point is. 

The door opens to the sound of his ragged breathing, as he gasps for air against the weight of his own thoughts pulling him in, pressing him down. 

He feels the weight of the bed next to him dip down. He makes himself look over. The effort feels enormous. A hundred times harder than it should be. A thousand.

Enjolras is sitting next to him, his hands neatly folded in his lap, carefully not touching him. “I’m sorry, R. I meant to be back before you woke. I should have waited until you were awake before going instead, but I thought it might upset you either way.”

It probably would have. Grantaire is useless like that. He wants to open his mouth, wants to tell Enjolras that it’s not his fault that Grantaire is so utterly and irreparably broken, that he shouldn’t feel guilty about not being able to fix what can’t be cured, but he can’t seem to figure out how to form words. 

“I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m assuming you’ll say something if you’d rather be alone.”

Grantaire would rather die than have Enjolras walk away from him again, but he’s not quite pathetic enough to say so out loud. Instead, his body—almost without his permission—curls minutely toward where Enjolras is sitting, as if he’s reaching physically for what he would never let himself ask for. 

Enjolras closes the rest of the distance, tentatively—taking Grantaire’s hand in his. His fingers are warm and surprisingly soft, and though his grip is gentle it’s like an anchor pulling Grantaire back into himself. “You’re so quiet, so much of the time,” Enjolras observes, and only he could say that with so little judgment in his voice that even Grantaire can’t worry. 

Grantaire manages half a shrug.

“I wish I could help you. I wish I could take the pain away. Or even just know what it feels like.”

It feels like there is a cloud of dust where his soul ought to be. Gritty and grey. 

It feels like all of his bones have been taken out and replaced with lead. Sitting is heavy. Lifting his hand to his face is weary. Walking is impossibility. 

It feels like there is a small live animal living in his throat trying desperately to claw its way back up to the surface. 

It feels like there is a fire on the inside of his stomach, burning away. 

It feels like his skin is made of paper that might rip through at any minute. 

It feels like he’s filthy, the kind of dirty you get when you’ve been out working hard all day, covered in dirt and waste and his own sweat. 

It feels like his heart is wet fabric that has been wrung and wrung and wrung like a dishwasher’s cloth and now lies empty and crumpled and faintly stained on the floor somewhere, forgotten. 

It feels really bad, in other words. 

“What can I do?” Enjolras follows up, when his initial question gets no response. 

“Stay,” Grantaire blurts without thinking. If he’d thought, he wouldn’t have said it. He means it, but he would never ask for it, not if his lips were in control of his mouth. As, in this particular moment, they seem not to be at all, somehow. He wishes he could take the words back, but—but he doesn’t, not really, not as Enjolras’ face goes soft and gentle and he squeezes Grantaire’s fingers gently in his. 

“As long as you’ll have me,” Enjolras promises. Grantaire wonders where he was, that pulled him out of their bed and away from Grantaire’s side when he seems so reluctant to have left. As if he can read Grantaire’s thoughts, he answers. “I went to go talk to Marius.”

Then he pauses again. This conversation is going to take twenty times longer than it needs to if he keeps doing that. Grantaire isn’t much of a conversational partner, and he isn’t likely to become one in the next five minutes. Enjolras ought to just say what he means to say and give up on waiting for Grantaire to act like a functional person, because that’s, well, impossible. It’s never going to happen. Grantaire is going to be a useless waste of space from this moment on and Enjolras had better just get used to it. Whatever he thinks is going on here, well, it isn’t. Whatever relationship he thinks they can have, they can’t, because Grantaire just isn’t ever going to be capable of being normal. He can’t even bring himself to say one word. 

“If you’re wondering why, I wanted to make sure we could stay here for a while.”

Right. Because Grantaire is so fucked up that his immediate thought, on realizing they needed somewhere to live, was to immediately try and sell himself on the streets, and he’s so pathetic he couldn’t even do that right. So of course Enjolras had to go and have a conversation with Marius, which Grantaire is sure was incredibly hard for him but he managed because Enjolras is brave and strong and everything Grantaire is not, when Grantaire can’t even get out of bed or do anything for himself.

“You need a chance to rest and recover,” Enjolras continues. Exactly what Grantaire needs. A reminder that he’s so weak he can’t even get out of bed. That he can’t do shit to help Enjolras, no matter how much he might want to, because his body is officially and entirely useless. “I wanted to give you that, since I’ve never been able to give you anything else.”

Wait, no. That’s not right. That’s not what Enjolras is supposed to think about any of this. Grantaire opens his mouth to say as much, but for some reason his lips and tongue aren’t working properly. Instead, he just blinks at Enjolras, staring wide-eyed at him. That’s easy enough to do, anyway. Enjolras has always been able to captivate him. It seems practically normal, not at all as bizarre as this situation was just a moment ago, when he remembers that at least one thing is the same. Enjolras is still the center of his universe, the constant lodestone around which his small world turns. 

He shouldn’t have asked Enjolras to stay. He shouldn’t be asking Enjolras for anything at all, but particularly not that, because he’s supposed to be helping Enjolras realize that he’s better off without Grantaire, that the fact that they’re free means he can finally lose the weight of Grantaire dragging him down to his own level. He’s supposed to be helping Enjolras get away from him, making him if he has to. 

What Enjolras just said is absolute proof of that. He feels guilty and ashamed when he thinks of Grantaire, for no reason at all. He’s done more than enough—more than he should—to protect Grantaire, and yet he blames himself. Grantaire is meant to make his life easier, to make him feel better, and all he’s brought Enjolras—all he’s ever brought Enjolras—is pain and shame. When they were captives, he was good for one thing. He could take the pain and abuse so that Enjolras would be spared. It was little enough, but it was something. 

“R?” Enjolras says, and his voice sounds like it’s coming from miles away. 

Grantaire blinks, trying to force the thoughts away. He ought to pay attention to Enjolras, but he can’t seem to make the room come back into focus. 

“I’m sorry.”

“You keep saying that,” Grantaire manages, his voice rough. “You don’t need to apologize to me.”

Enjolras gives him a long, appraising look. Grantaire resists the urge to fidget with Enjolras looking at him like that, but it’s not easy. He’d like to squirm back under the sheets and disappear before Enjolras can finish whatever evaluation he’s trying to silently conduct, before he can come to the obvious conclusion about Grantaire’s inferiority. “Do you truly not blame me?”

“What would I have to blame you for?” Grantaire asks, perplexed. To his surprise, Enjolras begins to laugh, his beautiful blond head tilting back to expose the long white column of his throat. His laugh is bright and fierce, quickly verging into hysteria, and then it leaves him just as quickly as it had begun, and Enjolras slumps over his own bent knees like a puppet with its strings cut.

And then Enjolras turns to face Grantaire and in a quiet, low, serious voice, says, “Oh, R. You will always be so much more than I deserve.”

That’s backwards. How unlike Enjolras, who after all is still the most brilliant man Grantaire has ever met, to have things so wrong. But when he tries to say it, he’s stopped by the pure intensity of Enjolras’ gaze. He can’t say anything to those eyes. The words he means to say, the words about himself, about what a worthless excuse for a man he is, shrivel and die under the unquestioning brightness of Enjolras’ regard. Enjolras looks at Grantaire with perfect, shining faith, with unwavering, pure devotion, with… with everything that Grantaire feels when he looks at Enjolras. 

Backwards again. The adoration is supposed to go one way. It’s only ever gone one way. Enjolras might have come to feel something more than disdain for Grantaire in the years that they were captives, sure. That’s only natural, if he believes Grantaire was protecting him from the suffering he would otherwise have endured. Grantaire will shamefully and greedily accept that, let himself enjoy being the recipient of gratitude he doesn’t deserve. He listens to Enjolras say the words he wanted for so long, even though he knows that Enjolras doesn’t mean them, not really. He wouldn’t love Grantaire if he didn’t have to. He won’t, now that he has other, better companions.

Grantaire has to remember that. If he forgets it, if he lets himself believe in some sort of romantic folly like that Enjolras could possibly feel about him the way he feels about Enjolras, he’ll go mad. And Enjolras wouldn’t like that. 

He’s tying himself in knots in his mind. It’s the only thing he can do, since he can’t walk and he is still, shamefully, afraid enough of speaking that he avoids that whenever possible. So he can just think, and think, and think, and feel the unbearable pain. 

Enjolras said he wants to help Grantaire get better. He ought to know that that’s impossible, that whatever is broken inside Grantaire was destroyed years ago. 

There’s no fixing him.

Surely Enjolras must realize it. After all their years of captivity—after seeing, again and again, the lengths Grantaire would go to—Enjolras must know how Grantaire feels about him. The depths of his obsession. The extent of his sickness. And yet he’s not pushing Grantaire away.

At least not yet.

Enjoy it while it lasts, Grantaire reminds himself. It’s true for the physical—no one is hurting him right now. It’s true for comfort—he’s fed and warm. And it’s true when it comes to Enjolras—he’s here, for now.


	19. In Which Our Heroes Look Toward The Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> will there ever be a chapter of this fic that's not just talking about feeligns? Who can say

There is relatively little for them to do, after that. Of course, Enjolras’ fear doesn’t go away just because there’s nothing to be afraid of. But at least he can devote himself to caring for Grantaire, which takes up enough of his time that he can’t focus on his fear as much as he can on his guilt.

He hasn’t realized how ill Grantaire was, even before their escape. He hates himself for it, of course, quietly and steadily. He doesn’t try to express an apology to Grantaire, though, since the other man has made it clear that Enjolras’ apologies are unwelcome. Grantaire says it’s because there’s no need for them. An absurd notion, if Enjolras has ever heard one. Jehan, his voice steady, tells Enjolras that he shouldn’t blame himself, that he was malnourished and injured himself. And Éponine reminds him that Grantaire had carefully hidden the extent of his own illness.

All worthless excuses. Enjolras won’t try to make them for himself. Because Grantaire, who has been through so much more than he had, never stopped noticing Enjolras’ distress. Enjolras’ guilt is nothing but a natural, inevitable consequence of that, on ehe deserves richly. It hurts, but he’ll accept it as his due. 

So he doesn’t talk much with Grantaire about the past, or even the future. He focuses on the present, on helping him. That, it turns out, is more than enough to fill their days. 

Grantaire can only handle tiny sips of water and heavily salted broth, which Joly says will help his body begin to regain strength. Enjolras sits beside him in the bed and feeds him with a spoon, ignoring Grantaire’s protests that he can do it himself. Grantaire’s hands shake too badly for him to argue for long after twice dousing them both with tiny droplets of liquid. He also needs to walk around the room every three hours to prevent further muscle atrophy, and can only get up and down by leaning heavily on Enjolras. He’s so light, too light, but Enjolras says nothing. They’ll only argue if they try to rehash the past, and Enjolras doesn’t want that. 

Grantaire lets him help, reluctantly. It has more to do with his fear of anyone else seeing him like this, Enjolras knows. He told Grantaire that he didn’t have to accept Enjolras’ help, but he had to accept someone’s, that he could send Enjolras away but he couldn’t be alone to possibly hurt himself or grow sicker or the other, unthinkably worse, thing that haunts Enjolras’ fitful sleep in the bed they now share—Grantaire could, even though they’ve escaped their captor, still die of the injuries inflicted on his already starved body. 

Enjolras coaxes him to sleep as much as he can. Twice a day, he helps Grantaire to the bathroom closest to their bed, where he bathes him in warm, clear water to help his injuries. Once daily, he sits with Grantaire, silently holding his hand, while Joly looks him over and pronounces him still clear of visible inflection. 

Most of the rest of the time, Grantaire sleeps. If Enjolras was hoping that the two of them would soon have a heart-to-heart where Grantaire would explain why he’s been so willing to sacrifice himself for Enjolras, where he would lay out exactly what the nature of his feelings are, he’s sorely mistaken. But it does him good to see Grantaire resting, even if his sleep is rarely peaceful, but broken by nightmares. Grantaire talks in his sleep, in half a dozen languages, so Enjolras can’t make out what the nightmares are about. Grantaire never discusses them after he wakes. But that the dreams are terrible, haunting him, is unquestionable. He wakes seeming no more rested than he was when he first fell asleep, and yet he can’t keep his eyes open for more than a few hours at a time.

Enjolras is probably fooling himself, but it makes him feel better, at least, to keep an eye on Grantaire while he sleeps. He can’t reach into the nightmares to comfort him, but he can watch over him, make sure that, physically at least, Grantaire is safe. Of course, he wouldn’t be able to do anything much to protect him if someone did try to harm him, since he himself is too weak to do much of anything. But at least he can see him, hear his unsteady breathing, know that he’s in a warm bed protected from the world outside. Even if Grantaire doesn’t seem to know it yet. 

That’s their routine. A pattern had been their saving grace in captivity. Now that they’re free, they still cling to it, or a modified version, at least. 

It’s been three weeks since their escape, and nothing has changed. Grantaire is fast asleep when Joly comes for his daily examination, so Enjolras hoists himself up and makes his way into the hall. 

“I’ll be back later. The best thing for him is rest,” Joly says. 

“Should he still be sleeping so much? It’s been weeks.”

Joly sighs. “I wish I knew more, Enjolras. Healing from this kind of trauma… it isn’t something you learn in physician’s training. I don’t know if there’s ever been a case like this before. But serious illnesses can take a long, long time to get better from. He was malnourished and weak already, and then he was badly, badly beaten. I don’t know how long it would take to recover from even one of those, but his body and mind might need a long, long time to heal. I know it’s difficult for you—“

Enjolras interrupts him. Which he knows is rude, but he can’t bring himself to care. “I don’t matter. I’m just worried about Grantaire.”

“You needn’t stay by his side night and day, you know. Or even if you do, you could start doing other things. Reading, writing, having one of us there for company… I know it’s been just the two of you for a long time, but you don’t have to remain isolated now. We’re all here to help you, as much as we can.”

Enjolras’ instincts scream at him to deny the fact that he needs anything. He has Grantaire, and no one is trying to hurt them. It would be selfish, foolish, futile, to think of anything more, when they’ve already overcome so much. He has everything he needs as long as he has Grantaire. 

“I won’t push you on it,” Joly continues. “Just… consider it. I’ll come back in two hours and try to have a look at Grantaire, and I’d like if you could let me know of something, anything at all, that we could do for you, as well.”

Enjolras says nothing, just nods solemnly at Joly. He speaks little, these days, unless Grantaire needs anything he has to ask for. But as he retreats into their room, he finds himself continuing to wonder about it. It’s been a long time since he’s thought about anything but survival, his own and Grantaire’s.

They’ve survived. Both of them have come through this ordeal. They’re transformed, physically and mentally, in ways that will last a lifetime. But there’s going to be a lifetime.

Enjolras never planned for this. He never expected to have a life after, and neither did Grantaire, he’s sure. He’d expected to die on the barricade. Then, when Grantaire had bargained for their lives, he’d expected to die of the shame or the pain soon after. Then, when it had gone on and on, he’d believed that one day his conscience would overcome him, that he would give in to despair. 

Life is stronger than he expected, more vibrant and more fierce. Life goes on, even after the worst has happened. And maybe Enjolras needs to begin to imagine what life will look like, in the aftermath. 

Grantaire is half-awake when Enjolras returns to their room. He says nothing, just tracks Enjolras warily through his heavy eyes. This, too, Enjolras has become accustomed to—Grantaire hardly ever talks, still. When they’d first gotten free he’d hoped that Grantaire’s easy joking ways would come back quickly, but that seems to have been beaten out of him permanently. 

“I was talking to Joly,” Enjolras says, because he’s started trying to fill the silence. Not so much because it’s uncomfortable, although it often is, as because he thinks it might be the right thing for Grantaire, to fill up the quiet. “He’ll be back in about two hours to check in.”

Grantaire half-nods. It’s a gesture Enjolras can interpret readily now—he inclines his head just a little. It seems like nothing, but Enjolras has had to get used to reading between the lines when it comes to Grantaire. This means that he understands and doesn’t mind. When he objects to something, or at least wishes he could, he doesn’t move at all. Enjolras wishes he would speak up, but he’ll take what he can get. 

“Will you tell me how you’re feeling?”

“Fine,” Grantaire says. One word. Enjolras tells himself he's gotten used to Grantaire trying to make do with the smallest possible number of syllables, but that doesn’t mean he’s obligated to like the change in his friend, once so vibrant and full of laughter. 

“Nothing hurts?”

“No.” Then Grantaire looks up at him—not quite meeting his eyes, but still—“Do you want to tell me what you’re thinking about?”

Enjolras sits in his chair, which is perched in the corner of the room, just across from the bed. It’s far enough from Grantaire that he doesn’t feel like his space is imposed on, as near as Enjolras can tell, but close enough that Enjolras feels he can keep an eye on him. His instinct is to play dumb, to ask Grantaire what he means, but that wouldn’t be fair. He shouldn’t make Grantaire speak any more than is necessary, not until he’s ready. “Not really, but I will.”

“Okay.”

“I’m thinking about what happens next. I’m starting to feel better, I’ve put weight back on, I’m thinking more clearly. And I find myself wondering, where do we go from here?”

Enjolras isn’t sure what reaction he’d expected from Grantaire, but whatever it is, it’s not the one he gets. Grantaire freezes, no part of his body moving except his hands, which tremble. His eyes drop and he falls silent, barely even breathing. Enjolras can practically feel his tension. 

Instinct tells him he should go wrap Grantaire in his arms, but he knows that would be the wrong thing to do. Grantaire could hardly want his touch, not at a moment like this, probably not ever again. 

Instead, he speaks, quietly and calmly. “Will you look at me, R?”

As always, Grantaire complies with the direct instruction, which is why Enjolras avoids making anything too close to a direct request. Unfortunately, Grantaire just glances at him and then drops his gaze again. 

“Will you please tell me what upset you? I didn’t mean to, and I won’t push, but I want to avoid… I hate when you retreat like this. I want to know how to avoid it happening.”

“It’s nothing.” Grantaire’s voice is completely flat and his face expressionless.

“I wish you would be honest with me.” Enjolras only realizes how manipulative that sounds once he’s said it, but it’s too late. Grantaire is already flinching, and Enjolras would apologize, but he’s also already talking. So maybe Enjolras did the right thing, or at least not the most wrong thing he could possibly have done. It’s so difficult to tell. It’s not like he can ask Grantaire for feedback about how he’s doing, trying to help him and be supportive when he has to guess how his words are being received. 

“I know where this ends,” Grantaire says, his voice barely audible. “I should be hoping for you to go back to yourself, but if you did—when you do—you’ll be disgusted with me. You won’t be able to bear to look at me, and as soon as I can stand you’ll… you wouldn’t send me away, exactly. You’re too good for that. But you’ll be back to your meetings, back to your books, back to your friends, back to your grand plans. You’ll live in some ascetic Spartan apartment I’ll never see the inside of while I convalesce here, and perhaps guilt will drive you here once a month to look in on me, but we’ll never be what we were when we were captive, and I know I should be glad for that because I always told myself I was enduring it for you, and now I’m hoping for you to remain tied to me even after we’re free. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Well. I’m happy to hear you talking, even if every word of that was ridiculous.”

“What?”

“R, I don’t feel obligated to take care of you. I want to, because I love you. I’ve told you that again and again, and I’ll tell you that every day for the rest of our lives. What changed between us when we were captives wasn’t that I became obligated to you, or feel guilty,” although he does, but there’s no reason to complicated things by bringing that into it, “it’s that I recognized the person you are. The strong, kind, generous, clever person you always have been, who I had been too blind to appreciate. I’ll never give that up. I’ll never stop wanting to be by your side, as long as you’ll have me.”

“But you wanted to know what happens next.”

“What we’re going to do next, R. Both of us, together. Whatever happens next, it’ll be me and you. So what do you say?”

For the first time, for Enjolras, it feels like an opportunity instead of a terrifying challenge. They have a life ahead of them, a life to build together. 

They’re so lucky.

Grantaire finally looks at him, again almost meeting his eyes. “I don’t care what the future holds, as long as I’m with you. I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to make the world a better place. I don’t even want justice for what was done to us. I just want us to move forward, together.”


	20. In Which Good Advice Is Sought And Received

She spends the day bustling about the kitchen in celebration of the fact that Enjolras is allowed to eat solid food now. He doesn’t eat much of it, though, presumably since Grantaire is still on an exciting mostly-broth diet. It’s just like him to deny himself because Grantaire is being denied by circumstances. Cosette might not have known him before this, but she has him pretty well figured out just from talking to Marius (who is blessedly incapable of hiding anything form anyone, especially his wife) and from how he’s acted since he’s gotten back. She doesn’t expect the food to be much of a temptation to him, if he’s determined to join Grantaire on his medically-necessary fast. 

Still, Cosette does her best to put together plates that might tempt him: a little bread and cheese, a little sliced chicken breast, fresh apples from the garden. Enjolras picks at what she sends him, presumably so as not to offend her feelings. She’ll take what she can.

In the meantime, she has other things to worry about. Joly assures her that they’re eating enough to regain health, and they’re both putting weight on at a steady pace. 

Like most of the remaining Amis and their circle—perhaps they should have a new name now, the Amis de l’ABC having been effectively dissolved with their failed rebellion—Cosette avoids the room upstairs as much as possible. Joly is there several times a day to check in, and Jehan visits on a daily basis, and Cosette or Éponine will bring them meals. But otherwise, everyone stays out of their way. It seems like the right thing to do—Cosette doesn’t imagine there’s very much she could do for either of them that would actually help, especially because she didn’t know either of them beforehand. Since their first introduction to her was during that terrifying time when they were first getting free, since Grantaire especially first met her believing that she was just another in the long line of tormenters, she supposes that she ought to keep her distance.

Instead, she contents herself with those areas of life where she is useful: cooking, keeping house for the gaggle of friends (since Joly and Musichetta have basically moved back in with them), and minding the babies. She’s beginning to wish that she had, in fact, agreed to take on servants when she and Marius married, but at this point it would be too strange to hire a maid with the proviso that she could never go upstairs and should ignore any shrieks of terror coming from a certain room at night. That seems like difficult conditions for anyone to work under. 

At least Cosette knew what she was getting into. More or less.

She’s never had an easy or normal life. She hadn’t thought that would change when she married Marius. She hadn’t even particularly wanted it to. She’s not sure how she would do, as the Baroness de Pontmercy. If she really had nothing to do but to keep house and cook meals, or couldn’t even do that much because servants took on all the domestic labor, she’d probably go mad. At least this way she has the puzzle of doing the right thing to occupy her mind. She’s no longer playing the active role that she did during the excitement of the rescue, if it ought even to be called that. Really, Enjolras and Grantaire rescued themselves. She and Marius have been able to give them a home, a safe refuge in physical terms, but their ongoing quest for wellness will be their own. 

She remembers that much, from her early days. 

As Enjolras and Grantaire start to become a little more mobile, venturing out of their room for brief periods in the mid-morning to walk the halls, she does what she always does when she’s in doubt. She goes to her father for advice.

She and Papa talk in the nursery. He spends most of his days with the little ones, who adore him almost as much as he adores them. With Aimée in his lap, tugging contentedly at his beard, and the baby asleep against his shoulder, he sits in the comfortable armchair by the fire. It fills Cosette’s heart to see him like that. Her Papa has always been so stubborn about taking any comfort the world has to offer him. Perhaps he’s becoming a little gentler on himself in his old age, or perhaps he’s simply tired of Cosette nagging him about it. Either way, he seems perfectly in his element with his grandchildren in his lap, the fire casting a long shadow behind him. 

“I was thinking you might be the person to ask about helping Enjolras and Grantaire,” she suggests.

“Oh?”

“Yes. I was wondering… I know you went through a different kind of trauma, but you were held captive too, just in a different way. You were hurt, tortured. And now you have a good life.”

“Better than I ever could have expected.”

“And you seem to have understood how to help me through it, after I lived with the Thénardiers, after my mother died. You didn’t have anyone to guide you through, but it seems that you understood what I needed. I remember when I first came to live with you I was frightened of everything, I had nightmares, I hid food under my bed for fear I’d not see more…”

“I remember too.”

“But I was able to get well again, to have a good life with Marius and the children. And with you. I want that for Enjolras and Grantaire as well, I want to help them get that in any way I can, but I’m not sure what the best thing to do is. And I thought if anyone did, it was likely to be you, since you’ve been through the whole thing on your own, and then again with me.”

Valjean looks thoughtful for a while, rocking slightly back in the chair. Aimée giggles at the movement, and Valjean bends to kiss her blonde curls before answering. “It’s a good question. Not an easy one, though.”

“I know we don’t talk much about the past.”

“That’s for the best, I think.”

“I do too.” Perhaps not everyone would appreciate her papa’s routine of silence, but she does. It’s not in Cosette’s nature to dwell on the bad things that have passed away. She still misses her mother, still mourns for those last few years of life when they could have been together and were forced apart, but she’s not one to let that stand in the way of her new life blossoming. 

“It was easier for you, I think, because you were a child. You grew out of the nightmares naturally, and children are resilient and more clever than we think. You had learned to accept living with the Thénardiers as normal—then you learned to think of your new life as normal. It was easier for you to make the change.”

“Of course.” Cosette’s early past doesn’t exactly haunt her. She thinks of it from time to time. More, now that she has two little ones of her own. Sometimes it fills her with a hot, burning rage, to think of anyone treating a child that way. But she doesn’t dwell on it, not when there are so many other, pleasanter things for her to think about. “You were never able to move past it as completely as I did.”

“I was a man when I was imprisoned. And that meant I was responsible, too—not for the crime I committed, for of course that small infraction I could forgive myself for. But for what I did in prison to survive, stepping over the bodies of men who had died of exhaustion, fighting for my share of their scraps of food, and for the man I let it make me, someone with no care for right or wrong… that haunts me more than any of the suffering that was inflicted on my body. It always will. I think it’s very possible that Enjolras and Grantaire are haunted by something like that. Rightly or wrongly, they may feel responsible for some part of their ordeal.”

“What would help with that? I know you’re still troubled by your time in prison, and by the actions of your escape, but you also have moved on to have a good life.”

“There are two things. The first is being able to speak freely about what you’ve done wrong. For me, that was the rite of confession, to speak my sins and have them forgiven, even when I could not fully forgive myself. The other, and most importantly, was your love, my child. Knowing that you depended on me, and more than that, that you loved me as I loved you, was worth living for even at the darkest of times. Love cannot wash away suffering or guilt, but it can make life richly worth living anyway. I expect that’s how they’ve survived so long.”

“Their love for each other.”

“Indeed. But that came to trouble me too, when I realized how unworthy I was of the love and trust you had in me, in your childish way. For a while, it plunged me into a deep sadness, as you may recall.”

“I do.” There were several such times in her childhood, when her normally doting papa had become quiet and withdrawn. The first had frightened her, but she’d become accustomed to them.

“You did much to cheer me on your own account, but knowing I had you to live for, that was the most important thing. I could not succumb to my despair, for I had you depending on me. And that made all the difference, knowing that however unworthy I was, and however much wrong I had done, there was still good left for me to do. There was still hope and love for me in this world, and the chance of redemption in the next.”

Cosette is quiet for a long moment, considering her father’s words. As always, he has seen to the heart of what troubles her, and he’s answered her in words both wise and loving. “I’m so lucky to have you, Papa,” she says, as she tries to do at every opportunity. Valjean doesn’t answer that—he rarely does, when she’s demonstrative—but she knows it’s good for him, anyways, even if he would never ask to be reassured. “I think this will help.”

“I hope so. If you want to talk more, you know where to find me.”

She kisses him on the forehead, and goes to find Joly and Marius. They’ve stumbled through Enjolras and Grantaire’s recovery long enough. It’s time for them to make a real plan.


End file.
